


Regression Therapy

by Fantine_Black



Series: With or Without You [2]
Category: X-Men (Alternate Timeline Movies), X-Men - All Media Types
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - No Powers, Angst, Bad Decisions, Breaking Up & Making Up, Calm Down Erik, Charles Always Says the Absolute Worst Thing He Could Possibly Say, Charles Getting Uncomfortable, Charles is a Teacher, Childhood Trauma, Disability, Dubiously Consensual Blow Jobs, Emotional Manipulation, Emotional Sex, Emotional/Psychological Abuse, Erik Has Feelings, Erik Logic Is The Best Logic, F/F, F/M, Father Figures, Flashbacks, Genetic Engineering, Grief/Mourning, Honestly Charles What Are You Thinking, Injury, M/M, Manipulative Relationship, Medical Experimentation, Medical Torture, Mentions of Cancer, Mildly Dubious Consent, Minor Character Death, Non-Consensual Bondage, Past Abuse, Past Character Death, Professor Erik, Psychology, Second Chances, Self Confidence Issues, Sequel, Sexual Abuse, World War II
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-11
Updated: 2016-11-29
Packaged: 2018-06-07 21:17:19
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 8
Words: 23,861
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6824680
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Fantine_Black/pseuds/Fantine_Black
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>O, God, he’d made a terrible mistake.  Whatever he’d expected to find here, Erik was still Erik, a man he’d moved continents  to avoid. In retrospect, that felt like a rather good idea...</i>
</p><p> </p><p> </p><p> </p><p>Four years after Charles walked away from Professor Lehnsherr, the two meet again for a drink.<br/>Because things are better the second time round, aren't they?<br/></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: Bygones

He’d almost left. Three times by now. Instead, he’d been watching  the whiskey in his glass become ever more diluted.

It felt safe to have it near.

It was crowded, and that felt safe too, but it made it very hard to know the layout of the room. It would be easier to switch chairs, but there was hardly any room on the side of the table facing the door. A group of frat boys was loudly planning their evening’s exploits at the adjacent table, and he didn’t feel like getting doused in beer.

But when they stood up to play pool, he didn’t move. Instead he started tracing the nerves in the table’s wood.

A shadow fell across his face.

“Hello, Charles.”

Dark jeans. Black shirt. Leather jacket.

He swallowed.

“Professor Lehnsherr.” He stood up. “You came.”

Lehnsherr nodded almost imperceptibly. He sat down opposite him without a word.

Charles shifted. “Do you….” His eyes met Erik’s for the briefest of moments.

“Do you want a drink?”

“No.”

Charles smirked. “I’ll have one, anyway.” He raised his glass. “Cheers.”

“Charles.”

Charles stopped mid-movement. He put down the glass.

“Why am I here?”

Charles looked at him. “I thought… I thought we might…” He rubbed his face. “Fuck, this is hard.”

Erik lifted his chin. “Where’s Moira?”

“Gone.” He lowered his eyes.  “She’s gone.”

Erik blinked. “She’s dead?”

“What?” Charles stared at him, then shook his head. “No, she’s not dead, Erik. Jesus.”

Erik leant back.

“So I’m to be your rebound girl.”

Charles pushed his chair back. “For God’s sake, Professor...”

Lehnsherr grabbed his hand. “You know what I want, Charles,” he whispered. “You know what I am. So why am I here?”

Charles took a breath. “I want to come back.”

Lehnsherr let go. Avoided his gaze.

“Don’t toy with me,” he said softly.

“I’m not.” Charles leant forward. “I want to come back. I want to come back to you.”

Lehnsherr pressed his lips together.

“Just so we’re clear,” he whispered. “I did not force you. Manipulate you. Hell, I didn’t even contact you.”

“I know, Professor.” He shook his head and smiled. “Erik.”

“Because I don’t want to deal with petty threats or elaborate escape plans. I particularly dislike being shadowed, Charles.”

Charles blushed. “Ah.” He cleared his throat. “I don’t expect that’ll happen again.”

Erik didn’t move.

“So what do you say?”

Charles swallowed. “Yes, Erik. Yes.” He took his hand. It shook. “Do I sign in blood?”

“Just drink up.”

Before he could stop him, Lehnsherr put down  money  and stood up too. Charles emptied his glass and followed him out, feeling more than a bit lightheaded. 

They didn’t speak. There was too much to say for now. And yet, walking through the familiar streets, a silent Erik beside him, Charles felt as if he’d never left, as if his time in Scotland had been a dream. No students. No doctorate. No after-lecture drinks in Ma Bell’s.

No Moira. 

He tried very hard not to cry.

But when they entered Erik’s flat, the lack of change began to unnerve him. If Raven had ever made her mark here, her presence had long been eradicated.

It made him feel testy.

He wished she were here.

That feeling intensified as Erik came in and closed the door to the living room. He looked at him through narrowed eyes, a half-smile playing on his lips.

“Did you think it would be that simple?”

Charles blinked. “What?”

Erik walked up to him. “You thought I’d take you back, no questions asked?”

Charles felt his muscles tense. “Look, if you want me to leave...”

Erik grabbed his shoulder. “Remind me,” he whispered. “What’s that you’ve called me, the last time we spoke? ‘Vile’, wasn’t it? ‘Dangerously misguided’?”

 Charles stood his ground. “You were. I meant that.”

Erik sniffed. “So that’s it? I’m not even getting an apology?”

Charles laughed. “You want me to apologise?”

“Three years, Charles!” Erik spat, fingers clawing into his neck. “Three years before I even remembered how to breathe!”

Charles felt his own lips curl. “Dry your eyes, Erik,” he said, pushing him off. “It doesn’t justify what you’ve done.”

“You have no idea what I’ve done,” Erik said. “For you, for Raven…”

 “I know you took the things that mean the most to me-”

“What, little Miss MacTaggert?”

“She abandoned me!” Charles shouted, the tears he had tried to suppress spilling out of his eyes. “You took all I had, so she abandoned me!”

Erik frowned. “What are you talking about?”

“She was going to be my wife!” Charles shouted, his voice so broken as to be almost unintelligible.  “She was going to have my children!” He wiped his eyes furiously before continuing: “But you had to come between us, you and your twisted obsession…”    

Erik laughed. “I haven’t set foot on the same continent in the last four years, Charles. On pain of – why, ‘certain death’, I believe...”  

Charles scoffed. “If you had just kept your filthy hands to yourself – ”

“Oh, but I have. You did most of the touching – ”

“Don’t twist this!” Charles said, grabbing his collar. “You wanted me, so you took me, my own life or wishes be damned!”

“That’s how the world works, Charles!” Erik shouted back, and pushed him away so he crashed into the sofa.

“No,” said Charles breathlessly. “Sane people ask…”

“I’ve asked you!” Erik said, eyes glistening with tears. “I’ve begged you, and you walked away!”

Charles sat up. “Maybe you shouldn’t have assaulted me first!”

Now it was Erik’s turn to scoff. “Please. I’ve never assaulted you.”

Charles sat up, his nails digging into the armrest. “It happened right here!”

Erik shrugged. “I was trying to make a point. I wasn’t trying to hurt you.”

“But you did!”

Lehnsherr threw up his hands. “When?!”

Charles stared at him. “Every time,” he said slowly. “Every week, more than once, sometimes twice a day…”

“That’s bullshit,” Lehnsherr said. “That’s complete and utter bullshit.” He walked over to the same drinks cabinet and poured himself three fingers of vodka. “You wanted this as much as I did.”

“I never wanted you!” Charles screamed, his voice becoming raw.

“Then why did you keep coming back?” Erik knocked back his drink with a smile. “You could have resigned if you'd wished to.”

Charles stood up and walked over to him. “Because you threatened me,” he whispered. “You would have hurt me. You’ve always made that abundantly clear.”

Erik set down the glass. “Are you done, Charles? Because this little sob story would have been a lot more convincing if you hadn’t just begged me to let you come back.”

Charles sighed. “They say all psychologists are messed up, but you’re fucking textbook –”

“Enough, Charles!”

Charles shut his mouth in surprise when Erik grabbed his elbow. “If you want something, you fight for it,” he whispered, fingers digging into Charles’ flesh. “That’s all I’ve ever done.” Then he let go and turned back to his glass. “Now. Why don’t you sit down?”

Charles blinked, but ultimately walked back to the couch. As he sat down, though, he felt something tighten in his chest.

“What will you have?” he heard Erik say. “Is it still scotch?”

Scotch. O, God, he’d made a terrible mistake.  Whatever he’d expected to find here, Erik was still _Erik_ , a man he’d moved continents  to avoid. In retrospect, that felt like a rather good idea, and...

 Erik looked down on him. “Charles? Scotch or vodka?”

His eyes flit up. “Vodka,” he said, before looking away.  “I’ll have the vodka.”

“Good choice,” Erik said. Charles could hear him fill both his own and a second glass. He took it before he let Erik pass and sit down next to him. Erik smiled.

 “Your health, Charles.”

“Chin-chin.” Charles emptied his glass and leant forward to set it on the table. Then he turned around. “Erik, I...”

He froze as Erik brushed his cheek.

He said nothing, just looked at Erik, but when he touched his face again he lowered his eyes and rested his cheek against the palm of Erik’s hand. On impulse, he kissed it, and let Erik pull him close. They sat silent for a long time.

“My silly boy,” Erik said eventually, stroking his hair. “My silly, silly boy.”

Charles liked sitting like this. But Erik kissed him, of course, and he wasn’t really sure that he wanted that, though he’d done it before, hadn’t he, so many times, and it was a relief to actually choose to, and he was even OK with Erik tugging at his clothes but NOT ON THIS COUCH –

“Bedroom,” he brought out. At Erik’s look he said, “more lube.”

Erik shook his head. “Just come here.”

Charles tensed, and Erik sighed. “Fine. Go on then.”

In the bedroom, he immediately went for Erik’s nightstand. “Is it still the bottom drawer?” he said, as Erik came in.

“Charles,” Erik said softly. “Please stop.”

Charles did, but didn’t move.

Erik tensed. “How many times – ” He stopped. “Just come here, damn you!”

Charles saw that Erik was shaking. He didn’t look at him when he came closer, just stood there and waited, and was flabbergasted when Erik hugged him, cradling him against his chest, whispering words like _Schatz_ and _Liebster_ and other endearments he didn’t understand. When he eventually did take both their clothes off, Erik didn’t seem to want to break skin contact at all; he kept pulling him close and even though Charles kept feeling shocked at how hard Erik’s body was, so unlike a woman’s, it wasn’t unpleasant when Erik’s cock rubbed against his own or thrust between his thighs in an apparent effort not to let an inch come between them. When Erik came, he was crying, and Charles held him in turn. When Erik did fuck him later, it was calm and unhurried; afterwards in the shower, Charles felt no compulsion to scrub his skin raw. Back in the bedroom, Erik lay sleeping, a half smile on his lips.

Charles felt himself loosen.

They might have a shot...

 


	2. The Parts That We Play

There were so many good sides.

Lazy weekends with sumptuous breakfasts (though never in bed); discussions that went on long into the night (and made them both develop a hankering for rich, strong coffee); silent hours nursing Bitburgers, lost in books; shared runs in Central Park, trying to outdo each other (Erik was undoubtedly stronger, but speed came more naturally to Charles, and he loved winding Erik up about that.) It was _good,_ watching baseball games together twice a week, Erik defiantly sticking with Coke, because you may think that is beer, Charles, but you clearly don’t know what you’re talking about. There were the shared conferences too, Charles tagging along with Erik, or the simpler pleasures of sneaking in to audit Erik’s classes. The man was so damn interesting _,_ now so more than ever, as he knew his work so well and knew, especially, what Erik had always struggled with. It was obvious, in retrospect: Erik had clearly needed somebody to disagree with him more often. His students certainly did not. It drove Erik slightly barmy; one time, after needling a class with ever more horrific statements, he’d bellowed “Cowards! Why won't you stop me?” before stalking out. Charles had found Erik in his office, chucking back whisky, flooded in tears. “They’re doomed, all of them,” he’d whispered. “They’d shoot off their own feet if I told them to.”

Be that as it may, Erik very much preferred making decisions at home. All of them. Even when, objectively, a decision should rightly be Charles’s.

Especially then.

Still, he was not going to budge on this one. “No, Erik, Buber and I don’t match,” he said, putting the book to one side. “I’m not going to devote years of my life to his theories.”

Erik blinked. “You still don’t understand his background very well. If you’d just let me…”

“No, Erik.” Charles stood up. “The point is that he doesn’t inspire me. Besides, you don’t need me to regurgitate your own work for you.”

“I need an outsider’s perspective.”

“Then go find yourself some other goy.”

Erik looked at him. “There is no-one better than you,” he said. “If you only applied yourself…”

“Erik, stop being so damn pigheaded!”

 When they heard the tone in Charles’ voice, they both froze.

O shit. Shit _._

Charles did _not_ talk to him that way.

“Look, that came out wrong,” he said, staring at his hands as he heard Erik come closer. “Buber’s got... plus points. No doubt. But –”

He startled when Erik forced his chin up, and had quite a lot of trouble breathing as Erik looked down on him. But then Erik brushed a strand of hair from his face.

“You’re still so very young,” the older man whispered.

He blinked. “I’m twenty-six.”

Erik laughed. “My boy toy.” He bent over for a kiss, but Charles turned his head to the side.

“Erik, I’ve got the fundraiser tonight,” he whispered.

Erik kissed his jaw line. “Yes?”

“And I still need to pick up my tux.”

Erik let go. “What?”

Charles took advantage of the opportunity to step back too. “I forgot,” he said. “I’m sorry.”

Erik looked at him. “There was a time you wanted to make something of yourself,” he whispered.

Charles gasped, but Erik turned. “Go get your tux,” he said, not looking at him. “And bring back Chinese food.”

Charles stood there a moment, debating a response, but then left the flat as quickly as he could. Outside, he sank down on the bottom step in front of Erik’s door.

He’d forgotten how intense Erik could be. Even as his assistant, when they’d spent far more time apart than together, an evening with Erik could leave him feeling wrung out. Now, Charles had started longing for Westchester, a thing he thought he’d never say. He’d contemplated moving there; had said as much to Erik.

Erik, of course, had vetoed moving into ‘Sharon’s house’.

Charles smirked. He didn’t think Sharon was ever going to set foot in the Westchester house again, much less live there. She’d drunk herself into a nasty bit of cirrhosis, and seemed resigned not to live very long.

He wished that he cared.

Well, he couldn’t, not even for Raven’s sake. Besides, if Mum had wanted him at her bedside, she should have paid attention when he was actually there, balancing trays of tea and (admittedly) soggy biscuits.

Raven demanded he forgive her for that, and he might have, too – Mum was hardly the first dutiful wife who’d had no interest in having children. But to call Marko an ‘honest mistake’…

Charles stood up and thrust his hands into his pockets, better to stop himself from blindly punching the brick wall. He set off instead, the cold wind biting into his face.

Mistake, his arse. Sharon was nothing if not incredibly savvy. She’d seen Marko’s potential early, and done all she could to endear him to his father. What Brian lacked in charisma, Marko had in spades, and as a team, they were indeed a force to be reckoned with. When Brian died (had she foreseen that?) Marko almost singlehandedly ensured that Sharon did not have to give up her carefully cultivated social circle. Would have been a pity, that, as uncle Bertie’s flamboyant ways made it difficult to show her face at home. No, much better to affiliate herself with Marko, even if he did show certain…proclivities…

Raven said he was full of it. Sharon, she said, didn’t know, and as far as perverts went, Kurt was not the worst of them.

And she honestly wondered why he’d felt compelled to keep an eye on her, when he and Moira had both left for Scotland…

Not that he wanted to think about Scotland…

Fuck, now he was bawling. He looked around furtively, then walked into the first place he saw, a sports bar, barely open. Ignoring the bartender, he ran to the restroom and locked himself into the nearest cubicle. Then he leant his head against the wall and watched the tears slide down his nose.

Moira.

They should have made it. Would have made it – if he’d been better. Charles felt himself double over with the pain of it: if he'd have been better, they'd still be there.

They weren't.

He'd let his guard down, that's what it was: he’d let his old complacency get the better of him. He'd been so drunk, drunk with love – for Moira, his job, his students – that he'd lost all his spark, his energy.

Erik’s energy.

If only professor Banner hadn't been so damn civil. He needed to be stretched, not coddled... Erik would never have stood for his crap...

He’d been a little obsessed with Erik in the end, he'd admit it. But he’d had to do something. He'd passed his doctorate without distinction, and had practically no publication record… something must happen - it wouldn’t do –

_And how did it all work out for you, Charles?  
_

He buried his face in his hands. He had been convinced that Erik would rekindle his enthousiasm, but so far he hadn’t, and Moira was gone. As were his students, Sean, Marie, Bobby and all the other little freshers who’d welcomed him into their lives...

_You’ve never deserved them._

Probably not.

He stood up with a sigh. At least he did still know how to rock a mean tuxedo. He’d always known how to do that, how to let himself be paraded around like some circus monkey.

He went out and washed his face, then fussed a little with his hair. Respectable, yes, he could look that part, walk the walk and say the words. He would do it right now, too: he'd walk back into the bar and slap ten bucks on the counter, as if it were perfectly normal to have stormed in like that, crying like a little girl. A “Cheers, mate,” to the bartender was all it would take to make sure no word of this would ever pass the man's lips.

He'd grab a cab next, and make it wait, for his tux and Chinese food, too.

Tip well, and the world is yours.

Some of it, at least.

Back at Erik's, he went for the kitchen, but startled when Erik called his name. “I’ve got you chow mein,” he answered him lamely, stopping by the couch and holding out the plastic bag.

Erik put the food on the seat next to him before taking Charles' hand. “I’m sorry,” he said softly. “You know I only want you to do well.”

Charles felt himself shiver. “I do,” he said. He met Erik’s eyes for a moment, but then turned his head away. “I do know, Erik.”

“Then why –”

“I’m going to be late,” he said, dropping a quick kiss on Erik’s crown. Erik let him be, then, and he could start primping up in peace.

He showered first, and shaved, put on some moisturiser too, before his cologne – he wasn’t going for the rugged look, not tonight. Then came the tux. Peaked lapel jacket, double breasted – nothing too frivolous. Silk pocket square (not too big, given his experience with silk squares in this house), nicely starched shirt, though no wing collar, of course. Cummerbund with hidden pockets – this was America, and a few well placed dollar notes would never go amiss. Simple dark trousers, silk socks, wholecut balmorals. Inconspicuous cufflinks, as not to distract from the Xavier signet ring.

He surveyed himself. Ah, yes. There he was. And such a superior monkey, too.

He felt a little sick.

No matter. “Don’t wait up tonight, Erik. I’ll be late,” he called, walking across the living room as quickly as he could. He only turned around when he heard nothing, not even a little huff. “Erik?”

Erik was standing, completely transfixed. "Exceptional," he panted eventually. "Absolutely exceptional."

The flashback hit Charles like a tidal wave. He turned and ran, positively ran, but he somehow he couldn’t get his overcoat from the hanger fast enough. He felt his heart pound as Erik came up behind him –

 “Please, Charles. Let me.”

He froze and stood limply as Erik took the coat and hung it over his shoulders. He let Erik coax his arms into the sleeves, and stood quite still as Erik fussed with his lapels. He only looked up as Erik kissed his brow.

 “Beautiful.”

 Charles shuddered out a breath as the doorbell rang. “Taxi,” he said, unlocking the door. “Good night, Erik.”

 Erik brushed his cheek. “Good night, love.”

 Charles gave him a glance, but then quickly opened the door and walked out. He didn't look up till he'd entered the taxi.

Erik stood there even after he'd left.   


	3. Westchester

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and/or commenting and making me think and almost give away all the plot points in the comments or for just clicking this link in the first place. It's been awesome. Thank you!

This evening was progressing rather nicely, wasn’t it?

There were all the condolences about Marko, for one. Tragic, tragic, blown up in his own lab, acid burns too, dreadful. Such a great man, of course. A true scientist. If only he’d taken a few precautions, and yet – great men were often above such concerns, weren’t they? Any idea what he’d been working on?

No, nor did he wish to.  The questions reminded him of all the summer afternoons when Marko had tried to tutor him, the stench of disinfectant filling his nostrils – but that was past. The man was gloriously, gruesomely, awesomely dead.

Charles grinned. That thought never got old.

Also, where his job had always been to charm others, now other were sucking up to him. Not officially, of course – Sharon did still hold the purse strings – but everyone knew he could be sitting on a very large fortune very soon. People were practically throwing themselves at his feet.

And it had been so very long.

Again, not technically. He certainly hadn’t lacked for orgasms these months. But the soft fullness of a woman’s breast – yes, that he had missed.  

But he hardly needed more complications in his life, and he’d never be foolish enough to risk Erik’s ire –

“-little sea creatures that grew legs. Yes, that’s about the gist of it…”

A voice straight from Oxford – a sexy voice at that! – belonged to a girl in dire need of saving. And yet he couldn’t blame the old man breathing down her neck. Long blonde hair, slender, toned arms, and look at those hips, hmm. Nice tits too, not too big, but in that slinky red dress with that demure little collar – had she  tried to make herself look this filthy on purpose? Hendry was positively salivating.

He unbuttoned his jacket and walked over. “Excuse me,” he said, flashing his most winning smile, “Senator, I believe your wife wants you.”

Hendry looked ready to kill, but could scarcely stay now. The girl nodded sweetly, but rolled her eyes at his turned back. “A gentleman would buy me a drink first.”

He smiled. “There’s none to buy here, they’re all on the house.” He turned around for a waiter just the same, and saw one appearing not one second later. He took two glasses and handed her one. “Chin-chin.”

He kept glancing at her tits while she drank, which made her frown.

 “Is something wrong?”

He chuckled. “It’s your eyes,” he said. “I can’t make them out.” He leant a little closer. “Are they blue, green, or…?”

“It’s called heterochromia,” she said, sighing slightly. “It’s a mutation.” Then she smiled. “My brothers called me a mutant, growing up.”

“That is a grave insult,” he said, in mock outrage, but she shook her head emphatically. “No, no, you musn’t knock it! Mutation took us from single celled organisms to being the dominant form of  reproductive life on this planet! Infinite forms of variation –”

“ – in each generation, all through mutation,” Charles mumbled.

She grinned at him. “You know it!”

“Yes… no…” he cleared his throat. “Somebody must have told me before.” Then he stretched out his hand. “But forgive my rudeness! The name’s Xavier. Charles Xavier.”

“Amy.” She cocked her head, smiling. “Not the Xavier, surely?”

He smiled back. “The one and only.”

She leant forward. “But you’re no relation?”

“Of whom?”

“Brian Xavier. The geneticist.”  At his stunned look, she laughed. “I’m sorry. I suppose he’s not terribly well known outside his field. I only thought – ”

“No,” he said, a little more strongly than strictly appropriate. “Brian was not a geneticist. That was my stepfather, Marko.”

She blinked. “That’s not what…” Then she frowned. “Never mind. I musn’t talk about it here,  must I?”

He hesitated, but then leant closer. “Come now. You know you can tell me.”

She blushed. “Of course.” Then she leant in too. “Those who’ve seen it always say Xavier was the real powerhouse of the two. That Marko’s work was mostly derivative.”

Charles felt his heart race. “He stole my father’s work?”

She shrugged. “They were always Xavier’s concepts. Marko did put a fancier spin on them, though, don’t you agree?”

“Yes,” he said slowly. “That does sound like him.” He felt something well up in his throat. “I’m sorry, Amy, but I need to dash. Until next time, yes?”

Her face fell. “I didn’t mean – ” but by then he was already halfway towards the entrance, where the young waiter had mysteriously reappeared. He slipped him a twenty. “My coat and a cab, please, there’s a good chap.”  

He’d barely had time to wipe his eyes before the taxi appeared. “Where to, sir?” the driver said as he rushed to  get in.

Charles took a breath.

“Westchester.”

*

He suppressed a shudder as the doors fell shut behind him. This house was like a tomb, or worse: a mausoleum. A place to get lost in.

He turned on the lights.

Now it was an oddity. An assortment of carpets, vases and portraits, neon lights overhead, sensors bleeping in between. Marko’s penchant for playing at genius inventor was annoying even after his death. Every corner of the house could hide some new contraption, and lord knew what he’d spent all these years fiddling with the wiring for.

He turned the lights off and slowly walked towards the staircase, his shoes sinking into the carpets, thick as a swamp.

_Hush, Charles, your father’s sleeping._

_Sorry, Mother._

_Run along now._

Brian had slept much in the end, whether from tiredness or strung out on some opiate, no one could say. Charles had stood looking at him once, tracing the radiation burns on his chest.

“Why did you do that, Daddy?”

“To stay with you, tiger.”

He’d been a big boy already, off to Eton in the fall ( _Autumn_ , _Charles, autumn!_ ) but that day felt small and fragile. A little silly, too, holding out the chessboard. Yet his heart was bursting with hope, for Brian to prop himself up on the pillows, eyes crinkling, and may the best man win –

A tired smile, so tired. “I can’t give you a fight today, darling.”

“That’s OK.” And he’d crawled into bed with him, because if all Dad could do was sleep now, Charles would sleep too.

(He hadn’t liked how Daddy smelt, but had pressed himself against his side regardless, which must have hurt Brian like hell.  He could hardly lift his arms after radiating all those lymph nodes. Yet he never said one word.)

Charles shook his head against the memory. Even if his heart still felt like it had freshly been cut up, he had a job to do. That girl, Amy, had known something about Brian that he didn’t, something classified at that.

It wasn’t right.

The fact she’d even said his name. “Brian Xavier”. He hadn’t heard those words together in more than a decade. “Dad”, yes, they’d said that, speaking softly in hushed whispers, but less as they both grew older, away from him. There was grandma, too, and granddad, but he saw them very little. They’d distanced themselves earlier, when they’d taken Raven in. Grandma had been despondent, had said something like ‘mongrel’, and with that, weekly visits were a thing of the past.

And then Kurt came, and insisted they call him Daddy, which both he and Raven blatantly refused. ‘Sir’ was all they had for him, and they soon got very good at avoiding the topic of fathers altogether.

So they’d let Brian fade.

The thought hit him like a punch in the gut, and he ran up the stairs, yanking doors open left and right, but it didn’t matter. There were other memories everywhere, fresher and more painful, superseding those he’d made with Dad.  He felt tears rise as he neared his childhood bedroom, undoubtedly as  bare and sterilised as all the others in the aftermath of the explosion. He opened it regardless, flicked on the lights –

And entered a shrine.

It was his old bedroom all right -the way it would have been if nanny had just had a thorough cleanup. The pictures of Einstein and Darwin were there, flanking the one of Monroe;  even his baseball bat stood gleaming in a corner. One picture, though, was definitely new. Only good enough for the kitchen once, it was prominently displayed now, showing him and Mum, after he’d just got his admissions letter to St. George’s. Next to it was Brian’s gift for the occasion, the most dog eared copy on his bookshelf: Darwin’s _Origin of Species._

He sank on the bed, but got up almost immediately and walked to the ‘Scottish room’. There they were, Raven’s records and make-up table, as if his 17 year- old sister would walk in any minute now. Weak in the knees, he left the room and walked to the end of the hallway.

The hinges of the library’s doors didn’t even squeak.

But that was insane. For years, the place had been tightly locked, with the furniture covered in drapes. Nobody entered but the help, not even Mum, and certainly not Marko. Yet here it was, completely restored, and suddenly everything came flooding back: sitting on the floor, surrounded by books, peppering Brian with questions about dinosaurs, and stars, and tiny little neutrons but mostly dinosaurs. Raven was there too, sometimes, because she was completely obsessed with volcanoes; but more often she came in to make them chase her,  outside on the grounds or through the hallways, which they gladly did – until the day Dad collapsed running.

_Genetics wouldn’t have killed him._

No. Dad’s obsession with atoms had, he was sure of it. Genetics had been _his_ first love, something Brian took up because Charles had enjoyed it. It had been their little thing, just like chess or snakes and ladders, and Marko had had no right to butt in...

In spite of the cold, he came in and curled up on the couch nearest the door. He’d often slept here when Brian was working, the warmth of the fire caressing his face. There was no fire now, but he still took off his tie, pulled up his knees and covered himself with his jacket. For the third time that day, he was in tears.

If Marko had stayed out of it, he might have yet been a geneticist. But working with the man had made him nauseous, so painfully aware who he was not. Each second in his lab he sickened further, until the very subject of genetics made him ill. He could no longer stand to look at Darwin, instead, he started spending time with Freud.

And yet he’d kept Dad’s book.

He stood up slowly and walked back to the bedroom. He took the book out, brushing aside Mum’s picture, and turned to the title page.

_Property of_

_Charles Francis Xavier_

_Age 8_

He grinned, and traced the lines with his finger. Then he flicked through some pages, reading up a sentence here and there...

And kept reading.

He felt something loosening around his heart. Here was a man writing with wonder and passion, apparently dying to find out something, anything more. The breadth of his scope was infectious, and even if most of his findings would have been nuanced and disproved now, Charles, like Darwin, could barely wait discover which ones.

He read until his eyes stung and his lids were drooping, and even then was loath to put the book aside. Ultimately, though, he put both the book back and straightened the picture. He looked at the two smiling figures for a while.

She’d been happy here, and proud, even if the picture was taken to celebrate his leaving. Maybe she’d wanted to share something of herself. He’d been such a little Yank, and Sharon never did seem to feel comfortable around Americans, an irony that wasn’t lost on her. Even now, Charles was one of the very few people that actually understood her references.

He groaned. He really ought to speak to her, if this decorating craze was anything to go by. He just couldn’t face trading barbs for hours on end.

_Neither can she._

No, which meant that he’d have to be the better man yet again.

He shrugged. He really had to head home, lest Erik throw a hissy fit. Thank goodness the man was as predictable as clockwork. Barring disaster, he woke up at 6.15 every single day.

(Unless he had one of his nightmares).

(Well, pray to the gods he did not, then, huh?)

But walking back for his coat and his tie, he felt he could barely keep standing. He needed to sleep. An hour or two. 5.30 should do it. Then he would call Erik and try to explain whatever had happened tonight.

(He didn’t know himself, but he’d think of something. He had to think of something.)

He kicked off his shoes, stripped to his boxers and slipped under the covers of his childhood bed. Then he set his old alarm clock, turned to his side and smiled to himself.

_Night, Mum._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope Charles's musings will tide you over until the next post, which might not be for another three weeks at least (I won't be at my keyboard that much in the meantime.) For the Erik fans (he seems to have fans!): much more of him in that one!


	4. Checks and Balances

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There's quite a lot of triggering stuff in this chapter, especially non-con and emotional manipulation. Please be warned.

-Ringing made his head pound-

-Eyelids felt like sandpaper-

-Five more minutes, please, until Nanny comes –

***

Fuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuuck.

10.15. _Ten fifteen._ Erik was going to kill him.

He threw back the covers, jumped out of the bed and ran into the hallway in search of the nearest phone. He found one next to the staircase and dialled Erik’s number.

_Don’t be home don’t be home don’t be –_

“Lehnsherr.”

“Erik, hi –”

“Charles!” There was a raw edge there, but Charles heard mostly relief in his voice. “Where are you? Are you alright?”

“I’m fine, yes, Erik,” he said. 

“But where are you?”

“Westchester.” As Erik said nothing, he continued: “I -I really needed to go there, and I didn’t want to wake you up -”

“Charles,” Erik said sharply. “What are you doing in Westchester?” 

 Charles faltered. “I...” He took a breath. “Look, it’s a long story, Erik. I’ll explain tonight, I promise. I just didn’t want you to worry right now.” As Erik still didn’t answer, he went on:  “Go to work, call Angel. You can still make your second lecture if you’re quick...”  

“I’m aware of that,” Erik snapped. “I’m glad that you care.”

Charles closed his eyes. “I am sorry, Erik. I never meant to scare you.”

“Fine,” Erik said eventually. “See you tonight.”

“Yes.”

Erik hung up.

 _That was a disaster,_ Charles thought as he put down the receiver, although he really didn’t know what else he should have said. Maybe he could pop by Erik’s office today. He always seemed to enjoy that, and it would stop him stewing for hours, which also couldn’t hurt. Erik might even help him make sense of last night’s conversation with Amy. Science wasn’t his field, but he always did like a good puzzle.

Satisfied, he walked back to his room to put his clothes on (how silly they looked in broad daylight!). Before he was even half dressed, he took _Origin of Species_  off the shelf once more – he couldn’t wait to get back to it– but ultimately put it aside. Better to wait till tonight, when this whole mess was over. He didn’t have that much time to catch Erik before his appointments this afternoon.

(He’d slid back into some of his assistant’s habits, since he had the time, and one of that was knowing Erik’s itinerary. He’d saved Angel from quite a bit of flack that way, poor girl. She, too, was frailer than she looked, a fact Erik seemed gleefully determined to ignore.)

But of course it only took one glance, sitting in the taxi, to tumble down the rabbit hole again. He was still completely engrossed as he walked up Erik’s  stairs, opened the door with one hand and barely took the time to hang up his coat before making a beeline for the couch...

“There you are.”  

Charles blinked, dazed, and shook his head. “Erik! You’ve decided to stay?”

Erik was sitting at the dinner table, dressed in yesterday’s black turtleneck and maroon trousers. Several cups of coffee were strewn around in front of him. He hadn’t shaved.

“Sit down.” He pushed his own chair away with a screeching sound.

Charles frowned. “Are you OK? Did something happen?”

Erik crossed his arms. “You tell me. And sit the fuck down.”

Charles walked towards him very slowly. “Steady on, Erik. I told you I’d explain – ”

“I’ve heard enough from you.” He kept glowering until Charles had, in fact, sat down, and put the book on the table. Then he leant in closer. “Do you think I’m an idiot?”

Charles looked at him. “Erik, whatever it is you’re thinking...”

“I called Westchester, Charles.” Erik said. “Three times, in fact. No word from you.”

“It’s a big place,” Charles said. “I was fast asleep...”

Erik smiled. “Oh, I believe that,” he said, walking around the table, “nothing like post-coital bliss, ey, Charles?”  

Charles stood up. “Listen very carefully, my friend,” he said, “I was in Westchester. You can ask- ” But Erik had buried his fingers in his hair. “Did she let you fuck her tits, is that it?” he breathed.

 _He’s drunk_ , Charles thought,   _he’s lost it,_ and forced himself to remain very, very calm. “There was no one else, Erik,” he said, “I can explain...”

“Of course you can,” Erik said. “You fancied a quickie, that’s what. So you picked up some slut, took her to the Ritz...”

Charles smirked. “The Ritz?”    

But Erik yanked his head down. “What was her name, Charles?” he whispered, eyes narrowing. As Charles shrugged, he shook him. “Tell me her name!”

And then it just... slipped out.

“Amy...”  

Erik looked like he’d just been stabbed, but he let go, which gave Charles the chance to run to the other side of the table. “I met a girl there, you’re right about that,” he panted. “But nothing happened, Erik! She knew something about my father, that’s all!”

“Did she, now?” Erik growled. “So you - what? Fucked her in the ladies’ room?”

“For the last time, Erik, I was at Westchester!” His eye fell on the Darwin. “And I can prove it, too! Take the book! Take it! Look at what’s inside!”

Erik grabbed the book and opened it. Charles saw him turn white as he read the inscription. He lowered the book, painfully slowly.  

Charles lifted his chin. “They don’t sell those at the Ritz.”

Erik opened his mouth, closed it, then opened it again. “Charles...”

Charles felt faint, a headache drumming on the left side of his temple. He clenched a fist as he looked at Erik. “What  do you want from me, Professor?” he said softly.

Erik said nothing. Charles walked towards him. “Eight years.  My whole adult life. And everything was about you. What you’d think. What you’d say. What you’d do.” He hugged himself. “Why did you do that to me?”

“Charles...” Erik said softly. “Charles, I love you...”

“No,” Charles said. “No, you don’t.” He wiped his eyes. “I need a shower.” When Erik reached for him, he bared his teeth. “Touch me and I’ll fuck you up!”       

 One second, it looked like Erik was about to move, but he didn’t, so Charles left, kicked off his shoes, stripped out of the rest of his getup in the bathroom and breathed a sigh as the hot water finally rained down on him. Then he slid to the floor, hugged his knees and tried to muffle his sobs as the tears yet again streamed down his face. He was so goddamn tired of it all.

At last the water ran cold, and he took the opportunity to scrub himself clean and rub some strength into his body as he towelled himself off. He took a look in the mirror, but decided not to shave. He wanted out, to Central Park, and run until he forgot that thoughts existed.

But when he walked into the bedroom Erik was sitting on the bed, reading. His eyes also had a reddish tinge. Yet as he looked at him, Charles saw his pupils dilate.

O no no no no. No fucking way. 

“Erik, some privacy, please?”

Erik smiled. “What for?”

“Because I’m asking you.” He opened the closet door, searching for his running gear. “You’re making me uncomfortable.”

He heard Erik approach. “And as long as you aren’t uncomfortable, hmm, Charles?”

Charles closed his eyes. “Erik, I’m not doing this right now!” He turned around to face him. “Whatever it is, we can discuss it over dinner, or hey – here’s a thought, bloody leave it for once, yes?!”

Two steps, and Erik was in front of him, hands on either side of his face, all but pinning him against the closet. “Do you know what I thought when you weren’t there, Charles?” he whispered. “I thought you’d been robbed. Kidnapped. Possibly murdered.”

Charles scoffed. “You’re being ridiculous…!”

Erik grabbed his shoulder, his thumb digging into the soft skin near his collarbone. “Why do you think rich people have bodyguards? Attending events like that, positively dripping with money – Charles, carving ‘target’ onto your forehead would have been a lot subtler!”

That… made a lot of sense, actually. Charles swallowed. “You’re right,” he said, averting his eyes. “I’m sorry.”

Erik lifted his chin with his other hand. “I’m not losing you,” he said, looking at him, “not this time. Never again.” And he kissed him.

It was… different. It was the first time the kiss touched him, right in the solar plexus, making his blood tingle as it spread, to the tips of his fingers and the soles of his feet, and he felt parched, he wanted more, now, right this very second. He put his arms around Erik’s neck and kissed back, deeper, faster, and saw Erik’s eyes widen in surprise as he whispered: “Erik. Fuck me.”

Erik pulled down his towel in one swoop, then pushed Charles towards the bed. “Hands. Knees. Head down.”

“I want to see you,” Charles said, but Erik growled, “Hands, knees, keep your head down, now!”  

Charles climbed on top of the sheets as instructed, his cock already half hard in anticipation. But nothing happened, apart from the cool air brushing against his skin. He heard Erik rumble in the drawer of his bedside table – no doubt for lube – but he took a rather long time, even  leaving the room for a spell. When he came back, Charles heard the clink of something metallic. He lifted his head. “Erik?”

“I said ‘head down’.” He felt  a hand on the back of his neck, forcing his head down into the pillows, while the other hand twisted his right arm on his back. When he felt cold sharp metal close around his wrist, he threw his weight to the side. “Shit, Erik, no, I’m _not_ into this, stop right now – ”

“You,” Erik spat, “don’t give me orders.” Two seconds later and the metal cut into his left wrist too. Immediately, Erik pushed his face back into the pillows.

“Erik,” Charles said, trying to keep his voice steady even when craning his head, “for the love of God, tell me what you want.”

Erik smirked. “Ah. Now you care.”

Charles shrugged, a rather silly gesture given his present position. “Erik, I’m sorry, I’ve told you a million times, I had a reason to go there, I didn’t mean – ”

“Shut up or I’ll gag you.” He pushed Charles onto his left side so they could see eye to eye. “I don’t want you to say you’re sorry. I want you to _be sorry._ ” He twisted a hand in Charles’ hair. “If something strange comes up again, you tell me. I don’t care if you have to use smoke signals. You let me know.”

Charles nodded. He didn’t know if he was shaking because of fear or cold. Probably both.

Erik brought his face a little closer to his. “And Charles – I’ll never hear the name Amy in this house again.”

“She’s not –” 

Erik tensed. “I don’t care what she is, Charles. You won’t see her again.”

Despite everything, Charles smirked. “There are other girls in New York, too, Erik. I suppose I can’t speak to them, either?”

Erik let him go. “I’m not blind, Charles. I see the way you look at girls. So get a prostitute, I’m game. But fuck around with undergrads and I’ll make you wish you hadn’t.” He stroked his back. “Any questions?”

Charles turned away. “Fuck you, Erik.”

“Getting right to that.” He turned Charles to his stomach. “Spread.”

Charles laughed, a dark, mirthless cackle. “Seriously? You’re going to rape me now, too?”

Erik kissed his cheek. “I’ve cancelled six appointments today, Charles. Better make it worth my while.”

And perhaps the most perverse thing about that line was that it worked. Charles could feel his head lower in a silent apology, and it felt so sweet, so sickly sweet when Erik kissed his brow in forgiveness. Erik could play his body like a warped violin, and even now, had he been able to, Charles’s hands would have been stroking along Erik’s body, the muscle, sinew and the many many scars which origins Erik still refused to divulge. His smell (olive soap and Hugo Boss), Charles now knew better than his own. Even like this, Charles’ body moved with Erik’s tongue as it travelled from the soles of his feet to the nape of his neck; lingering, kissing and biting at the most sensitive places, the crook of his elbow; the cleft of his arse. Erik’s hands lay on his buttocks as he begged him for the first time: “Please, Erik, untie me,” but Erik only chuckled.

“Perhaps. If you’re good.”

He ducked between Charles' cheeks and circled his entrance with his tongue. Charles nearly bucked, but Erik dug in his nails. “Stay still.”

Another moan went unanswered as Erik started slicking his now-sensitive hole with lube, softly stroking his balls with his other hand.

“You’ve been so confused, my love,” he said, pushing his index finger inside, “have you forgotten how good we can be? How good I can be?”

“No, please,” was as much an answer to Erik slipping his second finger in a little too soon, making it burn slightly before Charles' body could fully accommodate it. Yet Erik kept working him, making him yelp every time he brushed past his prostate. Only after he pulled his fingers back did he take off his turtleneck and push down his trousers, then leisurely slathered his own cock with lube. At long last, he grasped Charles’s hips and pulled them towards him.

“Up you get.”

And it hurt. It always chafed a little bit in the beginning – it was scarcely possible to take all of Erik in from the get go – but Erik was, today, quite unconcerned with Charles's comfort, what with his arms in that uncomfortable twist, and the way Erik was slamming his cock into him. But Charles was good too, meeting Erik’s thrusts at just the right angle. Before long, he had reduced Erik to German, the only other sounds Charles’ whimpering as Erik’s balls slapped against his. “Erik, please,” he cried as Erik yanked at the chain on his wrists, and that made him come with a guttural cry, Charles’ own cock still rock hard and leaking.

“Fuck,” Erik whispered as he pulled back, and after one savage kiss on his neck, finally loosened the handcuffs. Charles brought his wrists to his mouth, but not for very long; his cock was still straining and he pulled it, roughly, until Erik put a hand on his arm.

“You’ve done well. Roll over.” He put a little more lube on his palm and took Charles' cock between his hands; massaging it, even now, painfully slowly as Charles jerked against him and finally, finally came.

Erik looked at him, a slight smile on his lips, then grabbed Charles’ towel from the floor.

“Here. You’ll still have to change the sheets, though.”

Charles said nothing as Erik walked to the bathroom. Everything in him felt both raw and hollow. But as Erik came back, the tux in his arms and a disapproving look on his face, he lifted his head.

“I could leave, you know.”

Erik looked at him, put the clothes down beside him and walked to the edge of the bed. Then he sat down at his side and ruffled his hair.

“I know, Schatz.” He smiled. “But where would you go?”

Charles stared at him. Erik smiled again and walked to the closet. “There’s something on the dinner table for you,” he said after dressing and tying his tie. “Take a look at it for me tonight, would you?”

Charles said nothing, only turned his back. Erik chuckled. “Better be quick today, Charles. It’s your turn to cook.” He came back once more and put a hand on his shoulder. “See you tonight.”

Charles shuddered slightly when Erik closed the door.

How long he kept lying there, Charles couldn’t say. He only got up because of a pain in his stomach that turned out to be hunger. At 4.30 pm  he was completely famished.

After he’d thrown on a bathrobe and wolfed down some cereal, he walked over to the dinner table. Erik had cleared away the coffee cups, only leaving Charles’ book and some personal papers. Charles took a quick glance.

E.M. Lehnsherr. _Martin Buber’s “Religion als Gegenwart”: a Reappraisal._

On top of it, Erik had left a small post-it note.

_I’d value your input._

One moment, he felt nothing.

Then his whole body started to shake.

He took the post-it, crumpled it, tore it into a dozen pieces, but that only started it; he took the books, all of them, and flung them across the room, kicked and stamped at the papers, and even that hardly helped. It was only when he toppled the table, screaming, that he felt remotely satisfied.

Until his brain kicked in, that was.

Most of the papers were merely crumpled; some bindings had to be redone. He couldn’t care;  the only thing he cared about was finding _Species._ He found it under Buber’s letters, barely damaged, and breathed a sigh of relief. Then he put _Species_ down, and picked up _Martin Buber’s Essential Writings._  

And stopped.

He looked at one, then the other and back again. Then he ran to Erik’s bookshelves. Indeed: even Erik, that most ardent champion of the humanities, owned a few volumes on biology.

Because they were connected. Of course they were.

And now Charles was looking at his new life’s work.

He wanted to dance. He _was_ dancing. He was whooping and spinning and –

Erik’s phone was ringing.

He must have overheard it before, but it kept going, and he ultimately managed to answer it in time. “Hello?”

“Charles?” A voice so thick he barely understood it, but he’d know it from anywhere. “Charles? Is that you?”

“Raven?” he said. “Sweetheart, where are you? Are you OK? Is everything alright?”

“It’s Mum,” she sobbed. “She’s dead.”


	5. Intermezzo

Thank God for Erik.

Charles didn’t remember much of  the first hours, apart from two words:  get Raven. Supposedly he’d said that, over and over again, long after Erik had seen her, brought her home and returned to his own flat. Get Raven. Keep Raven safe.

(When he asked Erik about it later, the latter just shrugged. “You were a mess, Charles. Of course you were.”)

But that was it. Apart from Erik’s presence (startling, at first), almost nothing remained. He might have vomited. Shaken. Cried.

He wouldn’t know.

It was the next morning he couldn’t forget. Waking up knowing something was wrong, he nevertheless almost suffocated when the realisation washed over him.

Sharon was dead.

Mother was _dead_.

Mother. Mum.

Mummy…

It was a physical pain, deep in his chest, forcing out a low whimper. Then a sob. Then he was hugging the duvet, crying…

Erik came in, sat beside him, and wrapped his arms around him from behind. “Get up, love,” he said, pulling him upright, “we have work to do.”

“C…Can’t,” Charles brought out, tears and snot dripping down his face, but slinging an arm around Erik’s neck all the same. “Just can’t.”

“You must, love,” Erik said, holding him close, “she needs you.”

“Mum doesn’t need me,” he said, his throat burning with the pain of it, “she’s dead…”

Erik kissed his cheekbone. “I wasn’t talking about Sharon. How do you think Raven is feeling?”

Charles looked at him. “O God. I must go to her…”

“We’ll pick her up after breakfast.” He gave him a last hug. “Go wash. Shave. I’ll pick out some clothes.” When Charles looked at him, he gave him a shove. “Go.”

 But only when Raven was finally in his arms did he feel slightly more human.   _I’ve missed you, how I’ve missed you_ – but now wasn’t the time, Raven needed care, any fool could see that.

“I would have called you,” she whispered. “I didn’t know it was that bad.”

“I know you would’ve,” he said. “If anyone’s to blame, it’s me.”

She didn’t contradict him, which stung a little bit, but it was soon forgotten when she looked at him again. “I’m scared,” she said. “Mum wants to go all English, and I can’t… Charles, she wants me to call grandfather and uncle Bertie and all her cousins and….”

“Shush,” he said. “I’ll handle that.”

She bit her lip. “But I don’t know these people!”

He cradled her head. “That’s their loss, sweetheart. They could’ve made some effort, too.”

“I hate the way they look at me,” she said, cuddling closer. “Like I’m something the cat dragged in.”

“Stop.” He took her face between his hands. “You are the most beautiful thing I ever saw.”

Raven frowned, and even Erik shook his head at him. Ah. Commenting on Raven’s body was still a no go, then.

(Kurt fucking Marko. Acid burns were too good for that man.)

He pulled her close once more. “We’ll get through this. Both of us. I promise you.”

And Raven seemed to keep it together pretty well. Whether that was due to uncle Bertie, who got on with Raven like a house on fire, or Charles’s own presence, he frankly didn’t care. He was simply glad to see some of her most abject misery lifted.

(He didn’t think of himself. No time. Both he and Bertie agreed that Sharon would have wanted everything just so, and obsessing over flower arrangements did help enormously with not having to think about what the flowers were actually for.)

That’s why, on the day of the service itself, he was shocked to see Raven retreating further into herself by the minute. None of his or Bertie’s words helped, and he couldn’t ask Erik, because he hadn’t been able to clear his calendar until just before the ceremony was about to begin. So he was forced to watch Raven hovering around Sharon’s coffin, seeing no-one, hearing nothing. During the service, she clutched his hand so hard it hurt, but her features remained frozen, opaque.

That changed when bearers came to take Sharon away. “No,” she gasped, eyes wide, “stop them, Charles!” He tried to calm her, but she shook his arm. “Charles! Stop them!”

All eyes were on Raven as she jumped up and pushed off at least three family members in an effort to get to her mother. Only Charles turned around at the sound of running footsteps from the back of the church.

Moments later Erik had wrapped his arms around Raven from behind and held her as she struggled, then sagged, then sobbed into his chest. “I can’t keep doing this,” Charles heard her whisper as he joined them.

Erik turned her around. “You can,” he said, looking her in the eye. “Fighters, remember?”

She straightened her back. “Fighters.” Then she flung her arms around Charles’ neck and sobbed into his shoulder.

Charles turned his body slightly to face down the congregation.

Most just looked bewildered. Some smirked. And one young woman seemed very determined to get to Raven, but didn’t.

Interesting.

Although he was happy to find anything interesting right now. It was better than facing what he actually felt – which was bloody livid. He was determined not to let it show – Raven’s behaviour might be excusable, but he was blood, and he would not embarrass his mother – yet the fact remained that Sharon, rather than choosing to be buried near any of her husbands, had chosen to be cremated, so that her ashes could be interred in the Llewelyn family plot. She’d had her reasons- grandfather could not be expected to travel to the States, and it would give some of her British friends the chance to attend a short ceremony at home. But it also meant that he and Raven could not visit her grave without travelling all the way to Surrey.

No wonder his sister was upset.  

So both he and Erik held her hand as the coffin disappeared from view, to be taken to a hearse waiting at the back of the church. The cremation was set for later that day, a formality that he, Raven and uncle Bertie had been planning to be present for.

But Raven was adamant. No more,  neither cremation nor burial. So Charles went alone. He felt safer knowing that Raven was in both his uncle’s and his partner’s care.

(He was relieved when Bertie complied with his wishes. He was surprised when Erik did, too.)

It was strange, looking at his mother one final time, and seeing mostly the familiar distance. He moved to touch her, but felt he could not. Instead, he put a single rose between her hands.

“Say hi to Dad.”

Yet, when all was said and done, and they handed him the night blue glazed porcelain urn, it was all he could do not to press it against his chest. He kept his hands wrapped around it, though, hoping some warmth would reach through the smooth surface.

Back home, he had planned to hand her remains over to the family straight away – there were planes to catch, and especially cousin Mabel had other pressing commitments to attend to – but he simply couldn’t bring himself to do it.

Bertie nodded. “Where shall we put her up for the night?”

Without a word, Charles led him to his bedroom, and placed the vase next to the picture on his shelves.

Bertie looked at it. After a while he said: “She was proud of you, you know.”

Charles shook his head. “I don’t.”

His uncle sighed. “Sharon was always a tough nut to crack.”

Charles looked at him. “She was, wasn’t she?” And then they just stood, Charles’ forehead leaning lightly against his uncle’s shoulder.

So all in all, things had gone better than he’d had any right to expect. He and Raven had fallen asleep in each other’s arms and woken to the smell of Bertie’s eggs in a basket. Erik had had to attend a faculty meeting that morning, but he was here now, ready to take both him and Raven back to the city. Even though Raven had again refused to attend Mum’s interment (which meant his going was out of the question) Bertie had still demanded they all meet again soon, which felt like a comfort he couldn’t quite name. He really had no cause to feel like being torn limb from limb on the inside.

Except that he was. 

He’d held out long enough to drop off Raven, but the taxi hadn’t even finished parking in front of Erik’s house when he rushed out and vomited in the corner of the bottom stair. Erik held back his hair before he helped him upstairs and inside. Once there, Charles immediately went for the loo again, which left Erik just as unfazed. He simply cleaned him up, rinsed his mouth and took him in his arms. Which is where Charles found himself right now, two days later, as Sunday afternoon bled into night.

“Sing me the flower song,” he murmured, his head resting near Erik’s heart.

Erik kissed his hair. “Say it properly.”

“Die Blümelein,” he mumbled.

Erik laughed. “Close enough.” Then he stroked his arm. “ _Die Blümelein, sie schlafen schon längst im Mondenschein…”_

Charles closed his eyes as Brahms' notes washed over him. That voice – they should bottle it up and sell it as a tranquilizer. He felt even the smallest muscles relax as he snuggled up to Erik, head buried in the crook of Erik’s arm.

When Erik stopped singing, he looked up at him.

“Did your mother teach you that?”

Erik’s pause was just a fraction of a second too long. “Yes.”

“What was her name?”

A longer pause this time. “Edith. But Papa called her Edie.”

Charles pushed himself up. “What were they like? Your parents?”

Erik shifted. “Charles – ”

Charles sighed. “You never talk about them.” 

“There isn’t much to say.” He moved to the side of the bed. “How about that cuppa?”

“I don’t believe that.” Charles reached for him. “Parents are the most important influences in a child's life. Even their absence…”

“Stop analyzing me.” He stood up. “They’ve been dead for decades, Charles. Some of us move on.”

Charles flinched, and Erik immediately reached for him. “Sorry, love… I’m sorry…” He pulled Charles into a hug. “They’ve been gone for so long I have trouble recalling their faces,” he said eventually. “Sometimes I’m scared they were never there at all.”

Charles pulled back. “That’s terrible,” he choked, feeling his eyes fill with tears, “Erik, that’s _terrible_ -”

“Shh,” Erik whispered, as new sobs tore through Charles, “ _Alles wird gut… Alles wird gut…”_ He held him as he cried, and Charles simply let the tears flow until they ran out. Afterwards he felt cleansed and pleasantly light.

Erik kissed his cheek. “You’ll be wanting tea.” He laid Charles' head down on the pillow before leaving the bed once more. “Don’t worry, it’s not Earl Grey.”

“Erik?” Charles said softly, lifting his head.

“Hmm?”

“Love you.”

Erik stopped for the shortest of moments. “You too, Charles,” he breathed, eyes brimming with tears. “I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Die Blümelein, sie schlafen schon längst im Mondenschein: The flowers, they sleep already in the moonlight  
> Alles wird gut: Everything will be fine
> 
> There are many versions of Brahms' lullaby Sandmännchen (Sandman), but I think Edie's version would have sounded much like Edith Wiens's. If you're interested, here is a link:  
> https://youtu.be/t6ArqxjvoGw?list=RDt6ArqxjvoGw


	6. Identification, That's How It Starts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of it's fluffy. Some of it's really not. Please heed the tags.

Was it good to be glad of a death? If it made him reconnect with Raven?

She’d really found herself, his sweet little sis. She had a surety about her; he’d go so far as to call it swagger. She’d practically raced through her police training, and at night now all but owned the streets.

So cool.

 Yet in here, she still shrank.

She looked the part, mostly; anyone who didn’t know any actual heiresses would mistake her for one. Yet even Elizabeth Braddock – Betsy, as Mum had affectionately called her – could see it. By no means born to money herself –  if she had been, she would not have gone into this type of law – but she’d been around rich people enough to know that Raven lacked the air, the _je ne sais quoi,_ of her money bred sisters. As a result, she barely acknowledged Raven’s presence at all.

“No, Mr. Xavier, there is no immediate need to take action regarding the house,” she said to him after they’d sat down,  “even if you don’t wish to make any changes to your current portfolio. But your broker might suggest-”  

“Our,” he interrupted. “Our broker.”

She nodded. “Of course. I daresay Mr. Petros will be willing to take care of Ms. Darkholme’s assets.”

“I daresay he will,” Charles said, sharply now.

“Even so,” she continued, “as the main beneficiary of the Xavier estate, you are the one…”

“What?” Charles said. “No. That’s not right.” When no one spoke he took Raven’s hand: “Raven is my sister.”

“Foster sister,” Raven whispered.   

“You’re in the will!” Charles said. “You must be! Mum would never be so cruel – ”

“Ms. Darkholme has been provided with an annual income of 10,000 dollars for the following ten years,” Betsy said.  “Plus assets in worth of some $50,000, after taxes.”  

 Charles fumed. “That’s a pittance!”

Raven blinked. “It’s quite a lot of money, Charles.”

“It’s barely more than our college fund,” he said. 

Raven looked down. “Your college fund.”

And so it went on. Since Raven had never been adopted, she had no legal right to anything other than what Sharon had put in her will – which, Charles kept insisting, wasn’t much. Brian, incidentally, had not made adequate provisions either.

 “Charles,” Raven said after he’d –politely – barged out of Braddock’s office. “Mum and I have talked about this. If she’d given me anything more, there would be no end of people trying to take it away from me. Same when Dad died.”

Charles groaned. “Bloody vultures.” Then he shrugged. “That’s it then. I’m going to have to adopt you.”

“Too late,” Raven said. Then she stood still and cleared her throat. “Though you could…you know... marry me.”

Charles stared, then gulped, then stared some more. “Come again?”

Raven kept looking at him, so he put a hand on her arm. “Raven, sweetheart…” he said. “I’m incapable of thinking of you that way. I feel responsible for you.” When she still said nothing, he said: “Raven, you’re my sister. It would be beyond…I couldn’t… you must see…”

She suddenly burst out laughing. “Your face!” She grabbed his arm. “Just messing.” She pulled him closer. “There’s someone I want you to meet. Tomorrow? At Erik’s?”

Raven had been dining with them almost every night for the past three weeks. He looked at her, sideways. “Is this – are you…?”

She grinned. “Not telling!” She kissed his cheek. “Just tell Erik no turtlenecks!”

“You tell him!” Then he spun her around. “I’m so happy for you!”

But he spent the remaining time until the dinner trying to find ways not to make himself hate Raven’s new beau. And then Raven turned up with the young dark-haired woman he’d briefly met at Sharon’s funeral service.

“Well hello there!” he spluttered. “I’m Charles. But you know that!” He looked to Raven. “Does she know that?”

Raven smiled. “Irene, this my brother, Dr. Charles Xavier. Charles, this is Irene Adler.” She squeezed her side. “Irene’s a profiler.”

“Welcome, Irene,” he said, simultaneously trying not to look embarrassed and wondering how Erik would react to that news.

Erik seemed more interested in her name than anything else. “Adler?” he said. “Where’s that from, exactly?”

“My parents are from Salzburg,” Irene said.

Erik smiled happily. “Do you speak German?”

“Well, Raven does not,” Charles interjected. “And I could try, but I’d embarrass myself.”

Erik, of course, didn’t rest until he’d gotten some words out of her, and when Raven and Charles stood up to clear the dishes, he’d switched languages entirely. He seemed to be going on about one of his pet theories, but Charles couldn’t make out which one before  Raven took him aside.

“What do you think?”

Charles cocked his head. “You seem to have found yourself a _girlfriend_.”

Raven shrugged.

“Who’s Jewish.”

Raven shrugged again.

“ And a psychologist –”

“Criminologist!”

 “Fine! A Jewish criminologist girlfriend with Germanic roots–”

“It’s not the same thing!” she said, frowning,  “Austrians and Germans resemble each other as much as –” But Charles hugged her close.

“Raven, you exquisite creature,” he mumbled into her hair. “Don’t ever, ever change!”

“But you like her?” she whispered in his ear.

Charles hugged her again. “I love her. Most of all for loving you.” He kissed her forehead. “Come on. We’d better get that cheesecake in before Erik wears her out entirely.”

She looked at his face. “Is he always this way? With you?”

“God no,” Charles said. “Today he’s happy.”

Raven pulled a face. “He’s scaring me a little.” Then she kissed his cheek. “Thank you,” she said. “For liking her. She likes you too, I can tell.” Then she grinned. “And Erik might steal her away from me.”

Charles wasn’t sure about that. Erik was indeed laying on enough charm to make _him_ swoon, but Irene looked a little wary, if not to say suspicious. Which was understandable, given that Erik was Raven’s ex, but if his gut was right, that wasn’t the whole problem.

 At least it wasn’t his problem.

“Thank you,” he said to Erik as they both reclined on the couch later that night. “You were a charming host.”

“It’s a charming girl.” Erik went for his collar. “That damn tie…”

“Here, let me help.” He leant over and curled his fingers under the necktie, making Erik gasp. “All good.”

“It’s your fault for making me wear one.” He cupped Charles’s face. “Kiss it better?”

“Hmm, alright.”

They started out softly, as they had for weeks now, but there was more strength in Erik’s movements than before. Sucking at his lips, his tongue, Erik almost bit him.

“Relax,” Charles cooed in his ear. “I’m going to make you feel good.”  He ran his fingers through Erik’s hair, over his scalp. “We’ve got time, Erik dear,” he whispered. “So much time.”

Erik tilted his head, leaning in to the touch, but then he pulled Charles back, ravenous, wild. “Need you –” he gasped, but Charles wriggled free.

“You need a drink.” Erik made a strangled noise, but Charles turned away. “Patience. That Glenfiddich did not wait 18 years to be gulped down in one go.”

“I don’t care,” Erik said, and Charles laughed. “Neither do I.” He went to the drinks cabinet and selected three glasses. Then he took one and went to the kitchen.

“We don’t have ice,” Erik called after him. Charles grimaced, then took the bottle of still mineral water from the counter and filled the glass. “I don’t want ice, you barbarian,” he called back. He returned with the glass and a black straw, put them down, filled the other glasses with whisky and swirled. Very carefully, he dipped the straw into the glass of water, then added some to the whisky, a few drops each, before swirling again.

“Smell that,” he said, handing Erik a glass. “Savour it.” Erik took the glass reluctantly, but nonetheless smelled.

“Wow.”

“Good. Now take a sip. Slowly.” He moved over and sat next to Erik again. When Erik started to gulp, he pushed down his arm. “I said slowly.”

As Erik obeyed, he reached over. “Let me take your jacket,” he breathed, lips close to Erik’s ear. He slipped out one arm, fingers trailing from the shoulder to the wrist, then the other. He put the jacket aside, then took off Erik’s tie and slid his hands down Erik’s shirt, slowly opening the waistcoat.

“Charles,” Erik moaned, and pressed him to him. Charles smiled.

“Give us a kiss, then.”

It was hot, but Erik slowed somewhat, tasting the whisky on their tongues. Charles’s hands trawled down again, resting on the bulge in Erik’s groin.

“Charles, please...”

“Hmm,” he said, dropping to his knees, “shoes first.”

“Forget the shoes – ”

“I’m taking them off, Erik,” he said. “I want you to be comfortable.”

And indeed he saw a flicker of relief as he untied Erik’s laces. (Oh, Erik, everything was tight about him!) So he rubbed his feet, his calves, even his hands, before he tucked his own hands beneath Erik’s wristband and opened his trousers.

“Now, where were we?”

“Just suck me off already,” Erik said.

“Alright,” Charles drawled. “But I’m going to make it last.”

Erik shoved down his trousers and boxers both, but Charles only laughed. He kissed Erik’s balls, then stroked them as he leisurely licked the length of Erik’s shaft; all the way up from the root to the tip, circling along his cock with his tongue, then again, from a slightly different angle. He grinned at Erik as he licked his own palm, then closed his fingers around Erik’s cock and started stroking.

Erik was looking at him through half lidded eyelids. Charles licked the tip of his cock teasingly, which earned him both a gasp and a frown; deciding he’d tormented Erik long enough, he started sucking, stroking along Erik’s length with a spit slickened hand.

Erik’s head fell back. “Gott, o Gott –” He started jerking his hips slowly, and Charles took it as encouragement to take him in deeper, head bobbing with Erik’s thrusts, pulling back, then down again, until he had all he could take. He lifted his head-

A hand, strong, on top of his neck, close to the nape. “Take more.”

He looked up at Erik, frowned, spluttered. The hand didn’t move. Charles tried to move up, but Erik tightened his grip. “Don’t make me push down.”

But that didn’t make sense. He’d... he’d been good. He was trying to do Erik a favour. Had he dragged it out too long? Was it bad? Erik used to love it when he blew him...

And Erik didn’t look at all unhappy. In fact, he was grinning, his other hand softly stroking Charles’s hair.

“Breathe through your nose,” he murmured. “Put your hands on my thighs. And relax, Charles. You can do it.”

So he tried, bracing himself with his hands and  lowering his head an infinitesimal amount. Erik breathed in. “Yes!” And Charles tried some more, but he could go no further, he couldn’t take all that in, there simply wasn’t room...When Erik shifted forward, he felt his throat muscles gag –

That feeling unlocked something in Erik. He held Charles’s head with both hands, pulled back and fucked his mouth, not far enough to make him gag, but short, sharp thrusts that left Charles struggling for breath, two hot tears streaking down his face. Erik’s hands tightened as he was about to come and Charles pulled back with all his might; most of the semen splattered on his lips and dribbled down his chin.

He ducked his head, coughed, then wiped his mouth. Erik lay back with his eyes closed.

He pushed himself up, knees creaking. When he heard Erik move he stepped away from the couch.

“Charles?”

It was a lazy sound, drawn out, relaxed. He didn’t turn to look at him.

“Just the loo, Erik.”  

He closed the lid and sank down, coughing softly, wrapping himself in a tight self-hug. It didn’t stop him from shaking.

Well, perhaps  best shake it out, then. This would all make sense in a minute.

But he couldn’t stay here. Not for long.

Somewhere else. Somewhere he could be alone.

Kitchen?

He flushed, washed his hands, rinsed his mouth- shaking still – and willed himself to walk into the living room, where some dishes were still lying around.

“I’ll wash these up.”

Erik looked at him. “Charles, come sit with me.”

He couldn’t look back. “No, we agreed. You cooked. And fair is fair.”

So he scooped the dishes up and left the room.

In the kitchen, he turned on the hot tap – just the hot – and let his hands soak in the water. He sighed as he let his head rest against a cabinet above the sink.

 There was a stain on his sleeve. A cum stain. And that didn’t feel... debauched. Just filthy. He was filthy.

He let a plate glide into the water and added dish soap, scrubbing methodically. Soap was good. Clean was good. He plunged cutlery into the sink when he heard Erik approach.

“Charles.” His voice was soft. “Will you leave those dishes? Come back inside.”

Charles pulled up his shoulders. “You don’t like the kitchen dirty.”

“I don’t mind. Not tonight. Will you come?”

And yes, he would come. Lured by a voice soft and sweet as honey, to those arms that still felt right, like the safest place in the world. He came back, sat down next to Erik, curled himself up and put his head in Erik’s lap.

“It’s been a tough few weeks,” Erik said eventually.

“Yeah.”

Erik cleared his throat. “Charles, why don’t you try working a little? To get your mind off things?”

“I have,” he murmured.

Erik stroked his hair. “You have?”

He wasn’t going to say anything yet. Not until he was completely certain. But he couldn’t keep anything from Erik in this state.

He sat up. “I’ve found my new topic.”

Erik’s eyes widened. “What is it?”

He leant over and whispered in his ear.

Erik tensed. “What?”

Charles grinned. “Behavioural genetics. Cool, isn’t it?” He looked at Erik expectantly, but as he didn’t reply, he went on. “It’s the next step, Erik, logically. Just think about it. We study a patient’s life, family, social conditions... But their genes, their very essence – we know almost nothing about. It doesn’t make sense. Think about what we could accomplish –”

Erik clamped a hand around his arm. “Who have you been talking to?”

“The neurology department, mostly –” He pulled his arm back.  “Lay off, Erik, you’re hurting me...”

 Erik’s eyes were wide open. “Identification,” he breathed. “That’s how it starts...”

“Well, yes, exactly,” Charles said, rubbing his arm. “That’s the first step.”

Erik turned to him. “And it ends with being rounded up – experimented upon – annihilated!”

“No!” Charles said. “Not this time!” He knocked back the glass of whisky still standing on the table. “I know genetics has got a bad rep because of the war. But times have changed. The world has evolved.” He put a hand on Erik’s shoulder. “We have evolved.”

Erik’s eyes turned to slits. He stood up, walked to the drinks cabinet, filled his glass with whisky and knocked it back. “Are you really so naïve,” he said, turning to Charles, “to think this knowledge won’t be used to harm people?” He cocked his head. “Or is it arrogance?”

Charles’ head snapped up. “Excuse me?”

Erik came walking back towards him. “It would make sense,” he mused. “You have been taught you were better than other people  your whole life!  Hardly a stretch to believe it...”

“No,” Charles said, “no –”

But he thought of Betsy Braddock and felt his heart shrink.

“No – ” Erik said, standing over him, “you wouldn’t, would you Charles? You’d need _proof_.” He leant closer. “So who was it, then? Who gave you this marvellous idea? Was it Marko?”

Charles clenched a fist. “Erik, don’t be repulsive!”

Erik smiled. “Why not? He was a geneticist himself – ”

Charles stood up. “Marko taught me nothing I wanted to learn!”

“So it’s true then,” Erik said. “He always did seem exactly the type...”

“That’s it,” Charles said. “I’m going to bed.” But Erik didn’t move out of the way.

“You didn’t answer my question.”

Charles swallowed. “You would have a chip on your shoulder,” he said softly.  “And as understandable as that is, it’s making you paranoid.”

Erik pushed him back. “What did your stepfather say to you?”

“Nothing of late. He is dead, Erik,” Charles hissed. “And as glad as I am to see the back of him – he wasn’t like that. He wasn’t some...”

Erik leant in. “Yes?”

“I can’t believe I’m saying this,” Charles said, “but he wasn’t some Nazi.”

Erik smirked. “Are you certain?”

Charles pushed past him. “You’re tired. You’re drunk. _I’m_ drunk. Let’s talk later. When we can think.”

Erik closed his eyes. “You really don’t know.” He breathed a sigh that seemed to relax his whole body. “My sweet, stupid Charles,” he said, walking to him and wrapping his arms around him from behind, “who do you think Hitler got it from?”

Charles turned his head to look at him. Erik smiled. “You’re living in the birthplace of the biggest eugenics movement the world has ever seen,” he whispered. “The country that inspired Hitler. That funded his research. That trained his scientists.”

Charles frowned. “I’ve never heard that before.”

Erik kissed his head. “You wouldn’t have. No-one identifies with the losing side. But ideas don’t die. They get renamed.”

“That can’t be right,” Charles said. “What about Crick? Watson? What about Rosalind Franklin? You don’t think she was an anti-Semite, do you?”

Erik pulled back. “That’s different. They’re English.”

“That doesn’t make any sense.”

“They weren’t steeped in this filth for decades. They didn’t just rename their theories and carry on where they left off.”

“And the Americans did.”

“Yes!”

Charles turned around. “So you’re just going to write off a whole field of scientific study because its principles were abused at one point.” He shook his head. “You disappoint me, Erik.”

Erik turned white. “What?”

“It’s called critical thinking,” Charles said. “If you’re convinced  I can’t distinguish between racist rhetoric and scientific fact, you haven’t taught me too well.”

Erik breathed in. “Don’t try me, Charles. If you think I’m going to let you join a bunch of neo-fascists-”

“Your highly esteemed colleagues, Erik.” He narrowed his eyes. “And besides – how did you suppose to stop me?”

They stared at each other. Both had clenched their fists.

“I-”

The phone rang.

 Charles stared at the clock. “It’s 2. A.M!” he said as Erik grabbed the receiver. Erik shrugged, signalling for him to be quiet.

“Lehnsherr.” He listened. “Hallo Gerhard.”

 There was frantic talking at the end of the line.  “Was?” Erik said through gritted teeth. “Mensch, wenn das ein Scherz sein soll...”

Charles left the room. Whatever Erik’s editor wanted to talk about at this hour- it was not his job to care. He felt wrung out, washed up – quite drunk, not unlike he had in the beginning of his and Erik’s relationship. Business as usual, in a way. It would blow over.

And yet. This reaction – it wasn’t like Erik.

No, wait. It was exactly like Erik.

It just wasn’t like _Lehnsherr_.

The professor didn’t use ad hominem attacks and broad generalisations. Whenever Charles disagreed with him – and he often set up dilemmas in such a way that Charles could do nothing but disagree with him – he drew things out, making Charles give it all, only to obliterate him with counterarguments afterwards. It was brutal, but it was fair – like a chess game.

Now this – this was personal.

Charles lay back on the bed. He knew Erik was Jewish, and born in ’34, which meant he was just shy of 45 right now. He’d had a hard life – his body was testament to that – but Charles knew exactly nothing about it, apart from the few snippets of information Erik cared to divulge.

Erik was a blank canvas – who begged for his mother in his sleep. Who hated himself for liking Wagner. Who excelled at cooking. Who ran past the point of exhaustion. Who weighed knives in his hand in a distinctly unscholarly manner. Who’d never beat Charles at chess, but who wouldn’t stop trying.

If Charles could pull his head out of his arse – try to get inside Erik’s head – would things get better between them?

He walked back to the living room. Erik was knocking back yet _another_ scotch.

He walked up to him. “Are you alright? What was that about?”

Erik turned around. “I’ve found you a job.” He cleared his throat. “I need you to take over my lectures. Starting tomorrow. I must get to Munich as fast as I can.”

“But Munich’s in three weeks.”

“They’ve messed up the translation,” he said. He set down the glass. “I want to kill Gerhard.”

“But the original book has been out for a while,” Charles said. “You can always refer to that, can’t you?”

“They don’t read English over there,” Erik said. “They should, of course, but they don’t.” He snorted. “Most of them can’t follow Sesame Street.”

Charles hugged him. “Why have it translated at all? It is your first language.”

“I’ve been away too long,” Erik said. “Besides, they don’t like Jews, or Americans – they’re looking for flaws through a microscope. A strange turn of phrase can discredit you ...” He closed his eyes. “Those brown bastards are going to have a field day.”

“Brown?”

“The color of their pretty HJ uniforms.” He clenched a fist. “I’m going to kill Gerhard!”

“Please don’t,” Charles said wryly. “And what can you do? Do you want to encourage the other speakers not to read your work?”

“I can be very persuasive,” Erik said, but then he sighed. “It’s better than staying here, at any rate.” He kissed the side of Charles’ head. “Will you need help with the lectures?”

“I haven’t said yes, you know.”

Erik tensed. “Charles – ”

“I’ll be fine,” he shushed. “Angel will brief me.”

But Erik’s expression didn’t change. “Charles, about tonight...”

He bowed his head. “I heard you.”

Erik hugged him. “Good. That’s good.” He stroked his back. “We’ll find you something to work on, Charles. Something we can do together. Not Buber. I promise.”

Charles kissed his lips. “We must go to bed. You’ll be up by dawn.”

“Pretty much,” Erik said.  “God, I’m wasted!”

In bed, Charles curled his fingers in Erik’s, then stroked his back, fingers gliding past his scars – a forest,  a sea of unspoken secrets.

Well, two could play that game.

He waited till Erik’s breathing was regular and calm before opening the drawer of his nightstand. He brushed _Species’_ binding in a light caress, fingertips lingering near the book’s edges for a minute or two. Then he closed the drawer, turned around and went to sleep.   

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Was: What  
> Mensch: human/(here) dude!  
> Wenn das ein Scherz sein soll: If this is supposed to be a joke  
> HJ: Hitlerjugend/Hitler Youth


	7. Tailspin

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Please heed the new tags!
> 
> Quite a bit of German in here - the translation is in the end notes.

Turned out that Erik had done him a favour.

He feared he looked slightly demented from smiling this broadly, but Erik’s class turned out to be delightful. Half-hearted efforts made him chuckle; hostility (rare, in this environment, but there was always someone who didn’t hand in an assignment) made him want to ruffle heads, and to see them try, honestly _try –_ well, forgive him if he got a little misty.

“Top marks, Kitty,” he said as she shuffled away. “You’ve outdone yourself today.”

Alex smirked. “Well, sure.” He looked at him, and Alex shrugged.  “She’s never talked in class before.”

He raised his eyebrows. “You’re quite the silent type yourself, if I remember correctly.”

Alex shrugged. When he didn’t look away, Alex said: “I like to pick my battles.”

He laughed. “As do we all. Chapter six it is then – Have you got that, Matthew?”

(The boy had severe trouble seeing and sometimes missed information if it wasn’t repeated audibly. Erik was aware of that, but didn’t want to indulge him. Charles, personally, thought Erik should look up the word “indulgence”, but was unwilling to fight him over it.)

He stood back as they filed out, leaning against Erik’s desk, and tried to stop himself from grinning. “Any more instructions, Angel?” he said as she joined him from the back of the room.

“No, sir. If you don’t have any for me, that is.”

“Then I think you should go home for the day.”

She looked at him. “But the professor –”

“The professor owes me one.” When she didn’t move, he said: “Go on, off with you.”

She smiled back. “Thanks.” He turned to clean the blackboard, humming softly, but startled when he heard a different voice.

“Dr. Xavier!”

“Amy.” He cleared his throat. ”Such a pleasant surprise.”

Her smile dimmed considerably when she saw his face, but she spoke anyway. “I’ve heard you had some questions about genetics research. May I introduce you to my supervisor, professor Mueller?”  She stepped away, revealing an attractive woman with thick strawberry blonde hair and sharp features.

He felt himself stiffen, but managed to smile. “We’ve met, actually,” he said. “At my stepfather’s memorial.”

Amy blushed, but professor Mueller looked rather pleased. “I didn’t think you would remember me.”

Charles smiled back. “In which case you would have saved  me a lot of embarrassment.” He stepped forward. “And you’ve come all this way to answer my questions, too. How extraordinarily kind.”

They both had the decency to look a little embarrassed, though professor Mueller recovered rather quickly. “Your father has helped me a great deal when I started out in genetics. It’d be my pleasure to return the favor.”

Charles suppressed a smirk. “There’s really no need.”  He turned around. “Not for Marko’s sake, anyway - ”

“I wasn’t referring to professor Marko.”  

Charles stood still for one second. “Even so – ”

She turned to the side. “Amy, could you go have a look at those samples for me? I might be a bit longer than I anticipated.”    

Amy looked exceedingly happy to leave. Charles turned back to the blackboard. “You needn’t have gone to all this trouble. I’m not about to cut anyone’s funding.”

Professor Mueller blinked. “The board will be happy to hear it.”

“And I do thank you for your offer,” he said. “But I really don’t want any preferential treatment. I want to be a student like any other – if I choose to branch out at all.” The last thing he wanted was Columbia considering his enrolment a fait accompli; not before Erik saw sense.

“I’m a proponent of interdisciplinary research myself,” she said. “In fact -”

He turned around. “Professor, please. What’s this about? I doubt you personally seek out every potential new student, however fascinating their questions might be.”

She looked askance. “I’ve offended you.”

He shrugged. “You’re not the only one who has tried to contact me. But my mother passed away less than a month ago. I’m not yet comfortable making major decisions, financial or otherwise. So I'm afraid I’ll have to refer you to my representatives.”

She walked up to him. To Charles’s surprise, her gait was unsure, and she came close to stumbling. “I would have waited, Dr. Xavier. But...” She faltered, cleared her throat, yet ultimately spoke. “Like your mother, I no longer have the luxury of time.”

Charles blinked. “You’re ill.”

She nodded. “Huntington’s disease. Early stage, but...well.”

He looked at her. “I am sorry.”

She shook her head. “I’ve always known that it could happen. And I’ve always thought I could outsmart it. But it seems to be catching up.”  

Charles took a breath. “I wish I could help,” he said. “But I’m not a doctor. That is, I _am_ a doctor, but...”

She looked at him. “Dr. Xavier -can we talk?”

He frowned. “Somewhere private, you mean?”

She nodded. “We could go to my office – ”

“No.” He grabbed his bag. “Meet me at Lutèce.”

She turned pale. “I... I can’t afford that.”

“Not to worry.” He moved for the door. “Simone will find us a quiet spot if I call ahead. And we won’t run into any colleagues there.”

“No.” She pursed her lips. “We won’t.”

“In an hour then.” She might want to change, though he wouldn’t bother. He didn’t entirely trust her, and forcing people out of their comfort zone was a good move on such occasions. It had always worked wonders with Mum.

Besides, he hadn’t been to Lutèce in ages. Erik and Raven always balked at the very mention, and even Moira had rolled her eyes if he wanted to go more than twice a year. So he’d often spent time there with Sharon, telling himself that André’s coquelet a la crème was worth trading a few barbs over.

Simone indeed greeted him warmly when he arrived, and led him to a table were professor Mueller was already waiting. Smart. He’d have to watch out here.

“Some wine? The Chablis is particularly good.”

“Thank you,” she said. “But I shouldn’t.”

“Don’t hold back on my account,” he said, sitting down.

“I’m not,” she said. “Thanks again.”

Ah, well, it was worth a shot. He’d have to let her lead the way, now.

And she wasted little time. He hadn’t even started the consommé when talk turned to business.

“Dr. Xavier – how well do you know your father’s work?”

“Hardly at all,” he said. “I was quite young when he died.”

“Of course,” she said. “I’m sorry.” He barely had time to wave that away before she said: “So – your interests have developed independently?”

“I am as much a product of my environment as anyone else, I imagine,” he said loftily. Then he met her eyes. “Why?”

“I’m just wondering where to start,” she said.

He leant back. “Why don’t you start at the beginning?”

“The beginning. That’s hard.” She took a sip of water. “Dr. Xavier, have you ever thought about what will happen after the human race gets itself into all-out nuclear war?”

Charles winced. It was one of Marko’s favourite subjects, and he’d promised himself he wouldn’t be cajoled into discussing it ever again. “I’ve always felt there’s very little point.”

She nodded. “I felt much the same at first. In fact, I’d sought out Professor Marko because of his research on longevity.” She cleared her throat. “But he only took me on when I promised to assist him with his research on the effects of radiation exposure on human DNA.”  

Charles frowned. “That’s a strange move.”

“Not for him.” She sighed. “To your stepfather, nuclear war was a certainty. If the human species was to survive, he'd say, it had to find ways to endure in those circumstances also. He was quite convinced.”  

Charles shrugged. “He always was a strange fellow.”

She raised her eyebrows. “Professor Marko was a brilliant man.”

“Brilliant?” Charles smirked. “With all due respect, Professor – and I’m being generous here – he had grandiose ideas, but he’s never been credited with any scientific breakthrough. Believe me, I would have known.”

 She lifted her chin. “And yet the faculty has always kept him on.”

“Because of Mother’s money.” He took a sip of wine. “I’ve never thought Columbia was a meritocracy.”

She smiled. “I wouldn’t have taken you for a cynic.” She leant over and put a hand on his arm. “I can’t know if he was a good father or not. But you must believe me when I tell you that your stepfather really was a brilliant scientist. As was your father, incidentally.”

Charles sat up straight. “What do you want from me, professor Mueller?”

She leant back. “I’m trying to explain...”

“You’re not,” he said. “You’re trying to manipulate me. And you have for weeks now.” He chuckled. “Amy wasn’t volunteering at that fundraiser, and if she has any money, it is very new indeed.”

Professor Mueller looked away.

“I see.” He finished his soup, then signalled for the waiter. “We’ll both have the salmon, please, there’s a good chap.” Then he turned back to her. “I will listen,” he said, “as it’s obviously very important to you. But whatever my answer, it’s final, and I don’t want to be bothered again.”

She laughed. “I might not be the only one who comes asking.” She leant forward. “When I worked with them, professor Marko and your father kept discussing genetic technicalities I could barely imagine- they sounded so far-fetched. But they’ve kept cropping up in recent years. mRNA. Sequencing. Even Introns.”

“Ideas get discovered simultaneously...”

“Yet those discoveries never surprised either of them, not even in later years.” She shook her head.“They were on to something.”

He gave her a soft smile. “Professor – Amanda – if what you say is true, they should both have been Nobel laureates. And Marko, at least, wouldn’t have passed that chance up.”

“Unless he wasn’t free to speak.” She sighed. “So much of the research in their fields was classified I don’t even know half of what they were up to. But I do know the consequences of talking could be severe.”

He sighed, too. “Professor. I suppose we all glorify our mentors, but I highly doubt –”

“Dr. Xavier.” She looked him straight in the eyes. “Both your father and stepfather may have been on the brink of groundbreaking findings, and I’m asking you to share them with me.”

“And why would I do that?”

She looked taken aback. “Why wouldn’t you?”

“You’ve asked Marko about this yourself, of course,” he said. “And when he said no, you didn’t have any luck with my mother." He took another sip of wine. "If they weren’t comfortable sharing these findings with you, why would I feel any differently? Presuming, of course, this groundbreaking research exists to begin with.”

“Because you don’t have to fear any professional repercussions,” she said.

“He shook his head. “I'm sorry, Amanda. I’m not comfortable with this.”

She straightened up. “Are you willing to let people die because of that?”

He took a breath. “Professor, I understand your motives, but wouldn’t it be best to discuss your situation with other experts in your field? Besides, even if a treatment for your illness could be found right now, getting approval will be a very laborious process – ”

She shook her head. “I’m not asking this for me. But there will be others. Tens of thousands of lives. Ruined.”

“That is hardly my responsibility –”

“Dr. Xavier.” She looked calm. “Think of Tesla, or Da Vinci. How do you think the world would have looked if their genius had been recognized for what it was at the time?" She coughed. "If you decide to help me, I will do anything, anything at all, to assist you in reaching your personal goals. Tutoring. Equipment. Sources –”

His blood ran ice cold. “And if I refuse,” he said, keeping himself very still, “you’ll hinder my teaching, obstruct my research, destroy my reputation –”

She blinked. “What?”

He gritted his teeth. “I won’t let that happen,” he whispered. “I don’t care how good you are, or how sick, if you go after me, I’ll fight you, Professor, and I’ll -”

She snorted. “I’m dying, Dr. Xavier,” she said. “Don’t you think I have better things to do with my time?”

She stood up just as the waiter appeared with their main course. “Thank you for the soup,” she said. “Please feel free to call on me any time in the near future.”  

She wobbeled out, leaving him with two steaming plates of salmon.

_Well, damn it._

_*_

It took him three days, in the end.

Of course he’d been naïve enough to start in the library, it being, after all, a library. But that had been restored with an obsessive attention to neatness - the shelves still gleamed – and he knew that Mother would never have let anything personal or controversial pass through hired hands. Indeed, he found their photo albums locked away in a different cabinet altogether, not half as diligently sorted.

He'd considered quitting then– professor Mueller was most likely clutching at straws – but there were other rooms...

Attics upon attics stuffed with heirlooms and paraphernalia dating back to the early 17th century, for instance. He used to sneak in here, at times, but Daddy didn’t like it, and after a particularly bad thrashing from Kurt he’d chosen to leave them well alone. Looking around, he could still feel that buckle biting into his back, which made it doubly ironic that he preferred this place to the room where he was most likely to succeed.

The Study. Dad’s, Kurt’s, first so welcoming, then strictly off limits. Even now he didn’t know how to feel about it, seeing Dad’s textbooks next to Marko’s, their official publications shelved side by side. But there had always been other papers too, locked away in a bulky greyish safe, four feet high and three feet wide, pushed away into a corner.

He shivered. He really didn’t want to get into Marko’s head, not even to figure out a combination.

_Amanda could be right, though._

He reached for the keypad.

The first ten minutes got him nowhere. Would he get blocked after too many wrong combinations? It would solve so many problems!

But five wrong guesses later, nothing much had happened.

_Go on, Charles. Suck it up. Unless you want to be here all week._

He thought back to those summer afternoons, Kurt droning on about mutation, radiation, bombs -

Bombs?

**0-8-0-6-1-9-4-5**

Nope.

**0-8-0-9-1-9-4-5**

Nothing.

**1-0-2-2-1-9-6-2**

Bingo!

When the safe opened, he found heaps of papers; some filed away neatly, but others flung in, burn marks still on them.

Kurt Marko’s legacy.

Well, fuck.

But he could try. He _could_ try. If only to convince Amanda  to seek some actual help, and not spend her remaining good years chasing shadows.

Besides, some of it wasn’t Marko’s handwriting.

He took out some of the newer folders, marked ’63 and ’64, but found mostly sketches, models, sloppy shorthand; they were copies, and Marko had scribbled all over them, crossing things out and jotting down additions. It might as well have been Chinese.

He needed to go back further.

An especially large folder, marked 1955-1956, looked more promising. The opening page was the copy of an internal memo, the word SECRET stamped in fat letters on top.

 

To: Fred Duncan, Carl Denti, Nathan Mulberry, Kurt Marko

By: Brian Xavier

 

Subject: Extension of the SUNSHINE project

In response to Dr. Willard’s request for data, another 300 samples have been recovered and analyzed. In addition to being difficult to obtain, however, the findings remain inconclusive and of limited use to our particular objectives. I therefore enclose the proposition to extend project SUNSHINE by replicating and/or building upon the facts of the Manhattan Project, operations Green Run, and GABRIEL, as well as the research previously conducted in Iowa, Tennessee and Massachusetts. I have furthermore contacted our colleagues at the University of Rochester, Vanderbilt University, and the University of California for information.

Code name: BLACK WOMB.

 

Underneath it, Marko had written one word, underlined three times:

 

NO.

 

The next copy was of a letter written by Dad to Marko, a couple of days later:

 

Dear Kurt,

I cannot understand why you are so diametrically opposed to my proposal. The circumstances we have discussed ensure both the safest and least conspicuous conditions for our research, as we will be able to monitor the effects in real time and are insured that society at large will not be exposed to contaminated tissue.

Please reconsider.

Brian.

 

In the margins, Charles found a scribbled comment: _Tissue?!_

 

The following page held a copy of Marko’s reply:

 

Brian,

As we are beholden to the various parties involved in both our partners’ research and our own, we have little choice than to comply with their methods. But I will only back your proposals if you will do everything in your power to ensure that our experiments, at least, achieve the greatest possible benefits to the biggest possible population in the shortest amount of time, whatever the future may hold.

Promise me, Brian.

Kurt.

 

...What?

He read on and found layout plans, equipment lists, medical files...

 

Specimen #0292

Male Negro infant

Age: 3 weeks

Previous diagnosis: none

Iodine 131, 7.2Mbq

 

Specimen #0385

Female, Hispanic

Age 13

Diagnosis: pregnant, 15 weeks

Iodine 131, 6.5 Mbq (Administered orally)

 

Specimen #0439

Female, Caucasian

Age 4

Diagnosis: cerebral palsy

Uranium 234 104 µg

 

Specimen #0478

Male, Asian (Comatose)

Age 54

Diagnosis: Parkinson's, head trauma

Rads: 1Gy

 

Sweating, Charles kept skimming through the records, then others, then still more, but the results were almost always the same.

 

Deceased.

Deceased.

Deceased...

 

When he found a description of a Native American three year old’s radiation treatment _after_ having sustained severe burns (why? WHY?!), he couldn’t take it any longer. He pushed his chair back, bolted out of the door, found the nearest bathroom and vomited until he gave up nothing more than gall.

Afterwards, he stood at the bathroom sink, splashing water into his face over and over, but it did nothing to stop the shaking that overtook him. Desperate, he clenched the basin and leant his head against the bathroom mirror.

_Mum always said you look just like Dad –_

No!

Fuck, he needed a drink, any drink, Mum couldn’t have finished all of her supplies, no? She said you could wake her up for a Martini any time...

Turned out she’d been quite literal.

Drinking gin straight from the bottle was just the right kind of awful, and as he sank down on one of her bedroom’s flowery couches, he tried to make sense of his swirling thoughts.

_Hey, professor Mueller – about that death camp my father used to run..._

Oh, no, not again -

He shoved the bin into a corner (he’d call the help in the morning), leant back and tried to calm his breathing.

It didn’t make sense.

_It makes a lot of sense –_

No! Not even for Marko, who he mightn’t expect much from on the best of days –

_Marko didn’t suggest this –_

He clawed at his hair.

_No one must see this. No one at all._

With that, he stood up, walked back to the study, gathered the papers and threw them into the safe. Then he slammed the door shut, heavy and final.

There.

He went back to his mother’s bed, cradling the bottle, and curled himself up. After another swig of gin, he reached over for the phone on her nightstand.

Then he stopped.

Raven couldn’t know.

Erik –

Well, he certainly wouldn’t tell him, but...

He needed to know what to do. What to think, even.

He picked up the phone.

“...Ja?”

“Erik?”

“Charles?” He heard him shuffle around. “Jesus, it’s like five o’clock here.”

“Oh...” He pulled up his shoulders. “O, I’m sorry.”

“No, no, I’ll make time for an early run.” He yawned.  “What is it?”

 “I – nothing. How’s Munich?”

“Don’t ask.”

“Oh.” He grinned. “But the beer’s good?”

“Yes.” He sighed. “Yes, of course.”

“And breakfast?”

“Decent. Why? Are you hungry?”

“No, I just like to see you happy.”

It was silent for a moment.

“Charles. What’s wrong?”

“I went back to the house,” he said haltingly.

Erik’s voice was very soft. “And?”

“I think I shouldn’t have.”

“Then leave it for now,” Erik said. “You and Raven can clean up when the time’s right.”

“But now it’s just sits there,” Charles said. “Like some haunted mansion.”

“Nothing for it,” Erik said. “You can’t do everything at once. And there’s that staff you employ to take care of it.” He yawned again. “Have you eaten?”

Charles pulled a face. “I don’t think I –”

“Eat.” Erik said. “Take a shower. You have a class to prepare.”

“I do, don’t I?” He smiled. “Erik, they’re absolute sweethearts.”

Erik snorted. “They’re lazy bums.”

“Only half the time. Three quarters at best.” He smiled. “They’re lovely.”

“If you like lazy bums.” Erik’s voice softened. “Take care of yourself, Charles. And call me. Your lunch hour usually works.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“I mean it.”

“I know.” He took a breath. “I miss you.”

“And I you. Now get yourself home.”

“OK,” he said. “Bye, Erik.”

“Bye, love.”

But when he put the receiver down, he couldn’t move.

He had not just read all that.

Yes, he had.

No. He must have missed _something._ Dad was not – he was not...

Charles stood up. There was an explanation, and he wasn’t going to rest until he found it.

But hours later, sobbing over another account of a disabled child getting air injected into his brain, he started fearing everything he’d ever known was a lie. And still a part of him kept pushing through, with burning eyes and shaking fingers, until finally - 

Yes. Of course.

They were trying to **undo** it.

All procedures, roughly, seemed to come in two parts. The first part, apparently, was designed to destroy a person, or find some kind of tipping point – the amount of poison a body could stand before becoming irrevocably damaged. This part was heavily scrutinised – by the army; government; companies.

But the second part – that seemed to be something between the two of them, outside of protocol. They’d worked here, not Alamogordo; they started keeping subjects alive longer; mitigating the worst of their pain.

Of their torture.

Even though Charles understood how some people might find these practices justifiable, even necessary- he hadn’t forgotten the Cuba crisis himself, or the possible fallout – how his father could have borne to be around such suffering, much less inflict it, was beyond his comprehension.

_Unless he couldn’t say no..._

Manic, half mad, he turned the pages, back to those memos, and yes, there it was: _beholden to the various parties involved in both our partners' research and our own..._

O, thank God, thank God...

Charles cried again, and he may as well have been weeping blood with how much his eyes stung, but he finally allowed himself to close the folders, stumble to a bed and sleep, dark and deep as death itself.

*

The next two weeks weren’t much better.

Sometimes Charles didn’t think he’d ever sleep again as the images of the test subjects swam before his eyes. The extent of the cruelty inflicted never stopped to repulse him, and every new case felt like a violent attack on his very soul.

And yet.

A part of his brain was ravenous; felt like it had come home – even if home, apparently, was located in the depths of Hell. He started carrying folders around – he couldn’t get to Westchester every time – and made copies to have on hand in the rare case he might lose his belongings.

(Which, of course, would be disastrous. Psychology was still recovering from the MKUltra fallout; imagine a newspaper getting its hands on this).

Because, when all was said and done, it turned out Marko wasn’t such a crackpot scientist after all.

“They were sequencing,” professor Mueller gasped. “They were sequencing in 1958.”

“I take it that’s good,” Charles said haltingly.

“Yes – very,” she said. “And... O my God.” She swallowed. “They were recombining human DNA. In vitro.”

Charles frowned. “That sounds like Frankenstein.”

Amanda smirked. “It’s one of the main reasons we have sex, Charles.” She looked at him. “Do you have more?”

“I don’t yet.” He shook his head. “Amanda. We can’t publish this. I don’t even know if it is legal for me to show it to you.”

“We can work around that,” she said.

“Well, some of it may be rubbish.” They were not using the accepted scientific terms for some phenomena, he got that much.

“We can work around that, too. Are you sure you don’t want me to bring you up to speed on this?”

“I am not sure I have the time.” He’d promised Matthew and Kitty some extra help, mostly because his own brain was getting close to imploding. Also, he estimated he’d need a full three days to get Erik’s flat back to its usual pristine condition. Erik had been sounding grumpy enough the last time he called.

So he had rather little use for Amy when he found her waiting outside his lecture hall the following day. “I came to return these to you,” she said as she handed him some copies he had leant to Amanda.

“That’s very kind,” he said, stashing them away. “But excuse me, I believe I have an appointment in the next half hour -”

“Your next appointment’s at two,” Angel chimed in.

He sighed. “Thank you, Angel. Could you go on, please?” He looked at Amy, who hadn't moved. “Is there anything else I can help you with?”

“Just one thing,” Amy said. “Do you really think this section of the report refers to DNA ligases?” She came over to his desk and took the folder back out of his bag. “Professor Mueller and have been looking it over, and we can’t seem to agree...”

Maybe it was his sleep deprivation, the fact that his body was screaming for endorphins, or the fact that she actually had a brain on her, too, but sweet Jesus, she was hot. That or staring at someone’s lips was about the biggest mental exercise he was capable of right now.

Still. Perhaps they could –

“Dr. Xavier.”

Sweet lord in heaven, have mercy.

“Professor Lehnsherr.” He forced himself to meet his eye. “You’re back early.”

Erik looked like he’d come straight from the plane; his shirt was creased and he was still carrying his suitcase. All in all hardly relevant information, but still more helpful than his inner monologue, consisting of ‘fuckfuckfuckfuckfuckfuck _fuck’_.

 “New recruit?” Erik said softly.

Amy smiled. “No, sir. I’m Amy Spencer, professor Mueller’s assistant.”

Erik grinned, wide and toothy. “Oh dear. In that case, don’t let me disturb you any further.”

“It’s fine,” Charles said. “We were just finishing up. What can I do for you, Professor?”

“Nothing that can’t wait till tomorrow,” Erik said, turning around.   

 Charles exhaled. “It really is no trouble –”

But Erik had already left.

“So sorry,” Charles said, torn between stashing the papers, getting rid of Amy, and getting to Erik as fast as he could. “This is rather important. Please thank professor Mueller and – ” He ran out. “Erik!”

No sign of him.

Damn it.

He worked his way through a lunch crowd to get to Erik’s office. “Angel? Have you seen professor Lehnsherr?”

She looked up. “I thought he wasn’t supposed to be back yet?”

O God. O _God._

It would have been bad enough for Erik to see the state of his flat. But if he found the project files...

“Dr. Xavier? Are you alright?”

“Yes. No. Yes. I’m great, Angel. I –” He sank down on a chair.“I’m fine. I’m just fine.”

There were some files next to the bed...

He sat silent for a while before he heard Angel stand up. “Dr. Xavier,” she said softly.  “I know it’s none of my business... but I owe you one.”

He looked at her, blinking.

"Do you need help?"

"Help?"

"Yeah." She cleared her throat. “You seem afraid to go home.”

 _Well, what fucking else is new?_ He laughed. “Sweetheart. Whatever gave you that idea?”

“You look like hell,” Angel said. “And so would I if I had to live with professor Lehnsherr. No offence -but it's not OK.” She took a deep breath.  “And I know – you get assholes anywhere. Especially at work. But you shouldn’t have to live with one.”

“There’s more to him than that, Angel,” Charles said. “So much -”

“There always is,” Angel said. “Doesn’t make it right.”

“No.” It wasn't right, he saw that.

But he could make it right, couldn't he?

He went into Erik's office, got his coat and quickly left the building. 

What he’d failed to do all this time was clearly define what they had now. Not an “exchange”, not a mentorship, but a relationship between two consenting adults. And for that to work, he needed to know his own mind.

This might turn out to be a good thing in the long run, he mused, trying to flag down a cab on Amsterdam Avenue. Better fight it out now than spend months in quiet subterfuge. Much fairer on Erik, too. Because he'd have had to tell him someday. Bit hard to get himself a degree in behavioural genetics on the sly. No, this might be for the best –

\- unless his cab got into a car crash, that would be good too -     

Their stoop seemed a mile long, and every cell in his body told him to flee – though that would probably be counterproductive. Time didn’t usually calm Erik down; it gave things time to fester and o good lord he was going to die.

_Don’t get scared, get angry._

Who was Erik to treat him like a child, or a houseboy? What gave him the right to do whatever the fuck he wanted, with no consideration for Charles’ feelings whatsoever? Today was a case in point! If he’d only told him he was coming early, the whole mess could have been avoided, but no, big shot professor Lehnsherr had had other plans. Well, that was changing today.

Closing the door behind him, he called: “Erik, we have to talk –”

When he walked into the living room, it looked as if there’d already been a fight: papers strewn around everywhere, furniture out of place, the coffee cups on Erik’s desk fallen to the floor, his suitcase flung into a corner.

And in another corner, there Erik was, curled into an impossibly tight ball, squeezed between the bookcase and the windowsill.

Immediately, Charles fell to his knees next to him. “My God, Erik, are you OK? What happened –”

But when Erik looked at him, his eyes were wide and his mouth was set in a terrible grimace.

“Ich mag nicht, ich mag nicht – ”

“Erik, it’s alright, you’re home, your safe –”

Erik turned away from him, holding himself even more tightly.

“Bitte, nicht zum Doktor, bitte nicht zum Doktor…”

“Shh…” Charles said. “There’s no doctor here…”

“Ich kann’s nicht,” Erik sniffled. “Ich hab’s versucht." He looked up at him. "Ich hab’s doch versucht!” He looked down again. “Sagen Sie’s nicht dem Herrn Doktor…”    

“Erik,” Charles said, thinking back to a few weeks ago. “Alles ist gut. Alles ist gut.”

One moment, Erik looked up at him, but then he leant his face against the wall. “Ich will meine Mama…”

Charles sat up and looked at his face. “Erik. It’s Charles. It’s Charles.” He moved to touch him, but thought the better of it. “Can you hear me? It is Charles. You are in your home. With me. Can you hear me? Can you see me? Erik, what do you see? What do you feel?”

He kept repeating it, again and again, until slowly, some comprehension seemed to dawn. “Charles?” Erik said, pushing himself up. “Charles, we need to get out of here…”

“Hush, Erik. You are home,” he said. “Do you see? You’re safe. I’m safe. No one is coming. Everything is fine.” He helped Erik up, led him to the couch and put a blanket around his shoulders. "Here you are. Just come back. Just come back to me.”

They sat together, Charles cradling Erik, for many long minutes. Then Erik finally spoke.

“Are they still here?” he said through chattering teeth.

"What's that?"

“Those papers. Are they still here?”

Charles stood up. “I’ll put them away –”

Erik let out a low moan, stood up, scooped up a few folders and crumpled them. “Why are they here, Charles?” he asked, fists shaking. “Why the fuck  are these in my house?”

“I live here too, Erik,” Charles said softly.

One moment, the shock numbed them both. Then Charles spoke, quicker than he’d ever had in his life: “They were my father’s, and Marko’s. I found them at Westchester. I’m trying to make sense of them, Erik, I didn't know–”

But Erik shook his head. “You must destroy them.”

Charles took a breath. “I thought the exact same thing, at first, but – ” But Erik kept tearing, ripping at folders, until Charles screamed: “I’ve made copies!”

Erik stood completely still. “What?” He looked at him. "Why would you do that?"

“I think they might be important.”

“As evidence –”

“No. Yes. And as science." Then he shook his head. "But we shouldn't be discussing this right now. Do you want some food, or a sho -"

"We are discussing this right now." Erik's voice was very soft. "Because I'm interested, Charles. What gives you the right - what gives you the nerve - to call that science?"

Charles straightened his back. "I abhor those methods," he said. "Erik - they disgust me. But you haven't seen the results." 

"What results?" Erik hissed.

"The genetics are incredibly advanced. For their time, anyway. If we could use that -”

"I knew it!" Erik said. "I knew it!" He turned around. "I've tried to warn you, Charles!" he said softly. "'Think of the benefits.' That's what they always say."

Charles closed his eyes. “I’m not trying to defend these,” he said. “But what’s done is done. Think about it. When we use these findings, at least some of the suffering may not have been in vain.”

Erik looked at him. “I’ll tell you what happens if you use this, Charles, for some ‘greater good’.  Someone, somewhere down the line will think these methods are justified. And before you know it, they'll build another lab for some sick sadist's fantasies...”

“Dad was not a sadist!" Charles blurted out.

Erik frowned. “No? Because he kissed you to sleep at night?” He walked towards him and crawled his fingers though Charles’ hair. “Do you know who was an exceptional father too, Charles?" he whispered. "Rudolf Höss.”

Charles pulled away. “That's completely different!” He took a deep breath. “Dad was trying to help people!"

Erik looked at him. "Charles, are you insane?"

Charles walked over to Erik's desk and picked up one of the folders. "The government didn't care one lick about any of them," he said. "They just let them die, or miscarry, or waste away somewhere. But Dad fought for them! He was trying to undo the damage they'd caused!"

“So he kept them alive longer," Erik smirked. “Efficient, I’ll give him that.”

“How…” Charles gasped. “How dare you!” He slammed the file back onto the desk and walked over to him. “All you need is five minutes with a piece of paper and you’re ready to condemn someone you’ve never even met!”

Erik smiled. “I think I know rather a lot more than you do, Charles. Raven just wouldn’t shut up about him.” He sat down. “Although I must admit it does make sense now.”

Charles turned away. “O, here we go…”

“Raven wasn’t that pretty, was she?” Erik called after him. “Nor very sweet. Promiscuous too. A fucking miracle she wasn’t pregnant at ten, to be honest.”

Charles turned back. “That is my sister you are talking about!”

Erik smiled again. “And yet here comes this man. Loaded. Could get any baby he wants. But he chooses her. Why would he do that?”

“He wanted me to have a playmate my own age…”

“You were in England most of the year, Charles. Playmates galore. No.” He stood up again. “No, no. Raven was a hair’s breadth from ending up in one of these facilities herself. So he saved her. On one of his scouting trips." He smirked. “He must have felt a whole lot better afterwards.”

“Where do you even get this stuff?” Charles yelled, but Erik smiled.

“Go ahead, Charles, tell me. Which part is wrong?”

Charles walked to the dinner table and clamped his hands around the edges. “Why, Erik?” he said, his throat thick. “Why the fuck are you doing this?”

“Because they’re not getting you. These fucking fascists, they’re not getting you.” He placed his hands on Charles’s shoulders and led him to the couch. “I don't blame you, Schatz. Loyalty is an insanely strong force." He sat down next to him. “But you won't become like that. No matter how evil your father may have been. I won't let you.”

Charles looked up at him. “My Dad wasn’t evil, Erik,” he said, his voice cracking. “They -  he - he was following orders, he –”

Erik froze for one second. Then he grabbed the back of Charles' neck.

“I’ve been very patient with you," he whispered. "Even before your mother died. But I doubt it has done you much good.” He pushed him down into the cushions with his other hand. “Here’s what we’re going to do. First, you’re going to clean this place up because it looks like a pigsty. Then you’ll order us some food. Tonight, you’ll brief me on my students and begin your new assignment.”

Charles gulped. “Assignment?”

“You’ll help me revise my book.”

Some emotion must have flit across his face, because Erik increased the pressure on his neck. “I don’t give a rat’s ass about your preferences, Charles, if this is what you come up with when left to your own devices.” He let go and stood up. “So get to it. I’ll be back at six.”

“Where are you going?” Charles brought out.

Erik grinned. “Me and Fräulein Mueller are going to have a little talk.”

Charles stood up, too. “Erik, no. You can’t just – ”

Erik grabbed his wrist. “I can't what?"

Charles lowered his eyes and Erik smiled. “The food. Make it Italian.”

He was still smiling as he walked into the hallway. Just before the door slammed Charles heard him call: "And unpack my suitcase!"

'Unpack my suitcase'.

Right.

OK...

He picked up the case and put it on the bed, slowly unrolling Erik's clothes and hanging those that were still clean back in his closet. He unpacked Erik’s shoes, socks, shirts, pants, trousers, ties and pyjamas, several turtlenecks, his favourite suits, his books, pens, papers; a chess travel set, two cans of beer, a small bottle of schnapps and two bars of chocolate. He kept working until only the toiletries were left, which he put back on the right side of the bathroom closet.

Then he took his own toothbrush.

Then his comb.

Then his shaving kit.

He worked methodically, putting every single thing of his he saw inside the empty case; his books and his running gear, his records and papers, his suits and his tux, his sweaters, scarves, shoes, socks, trousers and underwear, his jewelry, glasses and his stationary, even the cassette tapes he’d bought.   

He put _Species_ on top before he closed the lid.

One suitcase was all that he needed.

*

Armando walked in with a smile. “Hey, Jubes.”

She rolled her eyes. “Ola, Darwin.” She still found it hilarious that he wanted to be a marine biologist. “You’re on. Somebody called for a car twenty minutes ago.”

“You could have sent Peter.”

“Nuhuh. I think you should handle this one.”

“Why?” He looked at the address. “Because it’s the West Side?”

“No.” She looked at him. “Because he sounded weird.”

He looked at the card again. “Xavier? Yeah, that’s because he’s British.”

She smiled, relieved. “So you know him?”

“I drove him to this charity thing once. Biology fiend. Good tips, too.”

“OK." She shook her head. "He still sounded weird.”

He frowned. “Did you ask if he needed an ambulance? Or the police?”

“Yes. He said no.”

“Did you ask again?”

“Three times.” She sighed. “I still don’t like it.”

Armando shrugged. “There’s not much we can do. Did he want the limo?”

“No, just the regular.”

That was a small mercy at least, in this part of town. It wasn’t too rough by any means, but he didn’t like to be ostentatious if he could help it. And he was a little queasy. Jubilee had a good ear for this sort of thing.

Nothing much happened on the drive over, though, and he could park easily enough. The only thing he noticed was an angry-looking white guy in a suit walking towards his address, but hey- that was New York for you.

He was about to get out and cross the street when the front door opened and a shortish younger man with brown hair walked out, carrying a suitcase.

The white guy seemed to pause.

Then he started running.

That... was never good.

That exact moment, a fire truck came blaring by and obstructed his view. When it was safe to get out again, the two men were arguing on top of the stairs, the older man trying to block the other man's way.

“Excuse me!” Armando called. “Can I help you?”

Then he gasped.

As the older man glanced around to see who had spoken, the younger man dropped the suitcase and hurled himself at him to get himself past. But the older guy....

Look, it was a defensive move -he knew a reflex when he saw one- but the older man threw the younger man down with such force that he was practically launched into the sidewalk. He landed on his back with a dull crack, his legs bent at a strange angle.

...Definitely not good.

The older guy seemed to think so, too, because he practically threw himself off the stairs as well to get to the younger. Armando heard him calling a name, Charles, Charles, Charles, as he was stroking his face and trying to cradle the younger man's body.

“Don’t move him!” Armando called as he finally made his way over. “Sir, please. I need you to call an ambulance. Right now. Can you do that? I’ll stay here.”

The man nodded, frantic, and sprinted upstairs.

Armando took off his jacket.

“Mr. Xavier,” he called. “Charles. Charles, can you hear me?”

The younger man only groaned at first, but ultimately looked up at him, his blue eyes brimming with tears.

“I can’t feel my legs,” he whispered. "I can't feel my legs. I can't feel my legs..."

 

*

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Ich mag nicht: I don't feel like it/I'm scared 
> 
> Nein, bitte, nicht zum Doktor, bitte nicht zum Doktor…: No, please, not to the doctor, please not to the doctor...
> 
> Ich kann’s nicht: I can't do it 
> 
> Ich hab’s doch versucht: I've really tried 
> 
> Sagen Sie’s nicht dem Herrn Doktor… :Don't tell the doctor (Using formal address). 
> 
> Alles ist gut: Everything is alright 
> 
> Ich will meine Mama: I want my mama


	8. Epilogue - Full Circle

Raven stopped the car in the visitor’s parking lot and turned to face him.

“We could go back.”

“No.”

“In case you’d changed your mind.”

“I haven’t.”

She let out a breath. “I really don’t think you should do this. And neither does Irene.”

He smirked. “You put a lot of faith in what she says, don’t you?”

“Only because it  literally is her job.” She swallowed. “Charles, I don’t understand this. You were leaving him.”

He turned around. “Could you pass me my crutch?”

“Charles!” There was a hint of something tense around her eyes. “This closure thing. It never works. It didn’t work the first time.”

“I wonder why that was.” He frowned. “O, yes! Bit hard to detach from someone when your sister has just moved in with him.”

She closed her eyes. “Please don’t put it on me.”

“I’m not. I just resent your backpedaling. I could have brought a car here, and a nurse.”

She snorted. “You’d still need me to arrange the meeting.” She took his arm. “I’m just very, very worried.”

He looked at her. “Then you know how I always feel about you.” He smiled. “And you do realise this is about the single safest way to do it?”

“But what about after?” she said. “How many more times is he going to land you in the hospital?” As he turned away, she said:  “Jesus Christ, you’re just like Mum…”

He flashed back to her. “I am nothing like my mother.”

“Except for the drinking, and the self-destructive tendencies – ”

“Oooh, look who showed up for psych 101…”

She looked down. “Charles, be careful.”

He swallowed. “I said the same thing,” he said, “before you moved in with him. But I didn’t stop you.” He opened the door. “Are you going to help me out?”

“Under protest,” she said.

“Noted.” He waited until she got the chair out before moving. He frowned at the three small steps near the entrance.  On some days, he felt a savage sort of pleasure watching people’s eyes nearly burst out of their sockets as he stood up to walk, however shakily. But today, steps were an imposition. He needed his energy.

Once he’d gotten out, into the chair, out of the chair, up the three steps and into the chair again he was indeed feeling dizzy and clammy. Raven wheeled him to a back room, away from the visitor’s area. “I’m breaking every known rule now, Charles, I hope you appreciate it. Shall we go in?”

“No,” he said. “No, I’m walking.”

She cleared her throat. “There’s no one in there yet, you can just switch chairs.”

“No wheelchair,” he said. “I’ll manage.”

“Charles, your physio’s gonna be pissed.”

“Oh dear, I’m terrified. Help me up?” He waited until she’d locked the wheelchair, then he put one foot down, next to another. Raven offered both her hands, standing in front of him, but that wouldn’t give him enough leverage – “Triceps,” he panted, as he pushed forward with all his might using the armrests. Raven caught him, and with added forces of his leg muscles, momentum and her support, found himself standing. “Crutch,” he said, “just the one,” and with his left side supported, felt that he could let go of Raven.

Crutch, leg, heel, toe. He could do this, if he had to use every muscle in his torso to act as a stabilising force. Crutch, leg, heel, toe; crutch, leg, o goodness he’d never been this grateful to see a chair in his life. He let Raven pull it back and fell down, repositioning his legs manually.

“Crikey,” he said. “Can I have some coffee?”

“I think-” Raven said, looking at her watch – “Yes, there they are.”

Charles had also heard footsteps on the side of another door, and waited in rapt attention for that familiar face to appear. When it did, he first saw studied boredom, then incredulity.

“Charles?”

He turned his back to one of the guards, who, after a short nod from Raven, took the handcuffs off him. Immediately, he rushed over to Charles’ side. When Charles didn’t move to greet him, he took the chair opposite him and leant forward, hands stretched out on the table between them. “Charles, my love, I’ve been so worried – ”

Charles looked up.

“Max?” he said. “Max Eisenhardt?”

Every muscle in his face seemed to freeze.

“Don’t call me that.”

Charles lifted his chin. “Why not? It appears to be your name.”

“Not for a long time.” He breathed in sharply, then looked around. “Can we have some privacy, for God’s sake?”

Raven smirked. “Nice try.”

But Charles shook his head. “Raven –”  

She looked at him. “Charles, be serious!”

“I want some time alone,” Charles said. “Otherwise, I could have arranged for a regular visit.”

She sighed, then looked at the guards. “Bill, you and I can get coffee. Az, take my seat. Don’t worry,” she said, “Azazel doesn’t give a shit about anything you say, in English or German. Or Russian, for that matter.” She put a hand on Charles’ head. “Twenty minutes. Tops.”

“Thank you,” he said. “So much.”  

When she’d left, they sat looking at each other in silence.

“Charles,” Erik started, his voice nearly breaking. “Charles, I’m so sorry –”

“Were you ever going to tell me?”

He leant back. “Tell you what?”

Charles swallowed. “I didn’t believe it, at first,” he said. “I never saw a number anywhere. And you would’ve been too young.” He looked up. “Children were gassed on arrival, I’ve read. Their mothers, too.”

A slight smile played on Erik’s lips. “Not all of them were gassed, Charles. Some had their heads bashed in,  some were burnt alive, some –”

“Why weren’t you?”

Erik smirked. “Wow, Charles. I didn’t think you had it in you.”

“I want to know,” Charles said. “Because if you’re sick enough to lie about this, Erik, I no longer have to believe a single thing you’ve ever said.”

Erik looked at him. “When have I lied to you?”

“Every day,” Charles said simply. “There is no Erik Lehnsherr.”

“I’m sitting right here.”

Charles swallowed. “And Max Eisenhardt is dead. He died in December 1944 in Auschwitz-Birkenau.”

Erik shook his head. “Much sooner than that.”

“So who the fuck are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“Stop it, Erik.  No one in Europe is called Lehnsherr.”

“Not anymore,” Erik said simply.

Charles looked at him. Erik looked away.

“Lehnsherr was my mother’s name.” He swallowed. “Erich was my uncle.”

Charles shifted in his seat. “Who is Magda?”

“My ex-wife. Didn’t work out.” Erik shrugged. “Is that a crime?”

 “And Ruth?”

Erik went ramrod straight. “Don’t.”

“Is it true?”

“Charles, stop.”

“It doesn’t compute, Erik, and to make up a story like –”

“Shut the fuck up!”

Azazel grabbed his arm. “Language.”

“Fine.” Erik held up his hands, but he kept glaring at Charles. “It’s none of your business.”

Charles shrugged. “Then I guess we’re done.”  Azazel  reached for the handcuffs, but Erik let out a pained sound. “It’s true, OK?” he said. “Ruth was my twin. And I watched as they shot her up with phenol every day. I watched, Charles,  and ate his fucking chocolate, and I didn’t shoot him, even though I could have.”  Tears were streaming down his face. “How could I have told you that? Where would I even start?”

“How did you get out?” Charles said.

“Herr Doktor took me with him.”

“Why would he do that?”

“Would I question the Almighty?” Erik said. “He just did, Charles, he took me here and changed my name and I was fucking thankful.”

Charles looked at him. “But he didn’t stop.”

Erik shook his head. “No. No he didn’t.”

He watched Erik sob. He was a pitiable sight, and someone ought to comfort him, but his heart felt numb.

“So what now?”

Erik looked up. “What?”

“What happens now?”

Erik rubbed his face. “They’re not going to deport me, if that’s what you mean.” He smirked. “No country on earth will have me.”

“So you’re stuck here.”

“It seems so, yes.” He shrugged. “I’ll be fine.”

“I’m not worried.” Charles cleared his throat. “Well. That’s all I had to know.” He reached for his crutch, but stopped when Erik called his name.

“Charles, please. Please let me make it up to you.”

He smirked at him. “Erik, you broke my back. It’s a miracle I can even stand. How do you propose to make that up to me?”

“I could help you, Charles. Move in. Take care of you.”

“I’d rather pay for my nurse, thanks.”

 “A nurse to keep you warm?” He leant forward. “Charles, it’s OK. You’re mad, I get it. You’ve made your point.”

Charles reached for his crutch. Erik smiled. “Let’s not play games. We want the same thing. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you came.”

“OK!” Azazel said. “Visit’s over.” But before he could reach him, Erik had stood up, grabbed Charles and pulled him close, so he had no choice but to cling to Erik also.

“Touch me and I’ll drop him!”

Azazel hesitated. Erik dropped one hand, cradling the small of Charles’ back. “This was an accident, love. You know it, I know it. I won’t let it end us.” He kissed him, short, hard. “I’ll wait for you.”

The door burst open and Raven ran in. One second, and she was at Charles’ back, arms under his shoulders. “Get the hell away from my brother!” A moment later, Erik was being dragged away, shouting: “I’ll wait for you, Charles! Always! Always!”

Charles sank back onto the chair, bracing himself against the pain shooting up his spine. Raven crouched in front of him. “Are you OK, Charles? Do you need a doctor?”

“No, I’m fine, Raven.”

“I’m getting you to hospital!”

“Just tea, please,” he said. “And can you get my chair?”

He could still feel Erik’s breath on his face.

It felt good.

Raven got him his wheelchair at lightning speed, and he didn’t resist as she practically tossed him over her shoulder before she lowered him into it. “I should never have done this,” she said, her voice thick with tears.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Charles said. “But thank you.” He looked to the door. “What’s going to happen to him?”

“A long time in solitary, I’d say. O, Charles...” She hugged him, and he rubbed her back.

“Shh, I’m OK, Raven. I’m OK.”

“Let’s get out of here,” Raven said. “OK?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He smiled. “I still want tea.”

 She grinned. “Brat.”

Back in the car, he turned to her. “I don’t want to go home yet. Please. Let’s go to Tarrytown or something. I need some air. See the river.”

Raven nodded. “Sure.”

Later, at the riverbank, sipping Earl Grey, Charles tried to clear his head, but all he heard were Erik’s last words.

_I’ll wait for you, Charles. Always._

Raven turned to him.  After a long pause, she said: “You can love more than one person, Charles.”

He blinked. “Hmm?”

“Even if you love someone very much.”

“Of course.”

“It doesn’t have to go away. Love can, like, expand.”

He looked at her. “I don’t love him, Raven.”

She smiled wryly. “Yes, you do. ‘Cause Erik’s great.”

He stared at her. “He threw me off the stairs!”

“I didn’t say he wasn’t a total brute. Or a liar. And a criminal. But the rest of the time he’s great.”

“There’s not much rest –”

“Exactly!”

He looked down, hands wrapped around his cup. “I can’t forget him, Raven. Please don’t ask.  He’s everywhere. In everything.”

She took his hand. “I know what you mean.”

 He looked up. “I didn’t know you and Erik were that close.”

She snorted. “We weren’t.” But she wouldn’t meet his eye.

He swallowed. “You weren’t joking, were you,” he said eventually. “When you asked me to marry you.”

Raven shrugged. “I dunno.” Then she looked back up. “But I’m not giving Irene up for you,  Charles. That ship’s probably in Fiji by now.”

He laughed. “Good.”

She cleared her throat. “Doesn’t mean you aren’t everywhere, too. That I don’t love you so much it hurts. Both of you.” She stood up. “More tea?”

“No.” As she walked away, he turned to her. “Raven?”

“Yes?”

“I’m scared.”

She walked back. “I’m not letting him near you again, Charles. And neither will Irene. Or Moira, for that matter.” She grinned. “Charlie’s angels!”

His throat hurt. “I don’t deserve my girls.” Raven sat down next to him. He put his head on her shoulder. “Especially you.”

She kissed his cheek. “Now you know how I’ve always felt.” She hunched her shoulders. “I’m freezing. Let’s go home.”

“Best cancel physio for today,” he said softly.

“I will not!” She grinned. “I have cancelled Hank.”

He sighed. “Thanks. Hank’s relentless, God love him.”

She frowned. “I don’t want him to be hard on you.”

“He’s not. He’s just fascinated by everything. I don’t know who is teaching whom most of the time.”

“You’re loving it.”

“Yes. Yes I am.” He grinned. “I really am.” He looked at Raven. “What?”

Her eyes were shining. “Charles. You’re smiling.”

He looked down. ”Is that bad?”

She tickled him. “Do it again!”

“Hey!” he called. “Do I have to report you for police brutality?” But she kept tickling him till he nearly wet himself.

“I swear,” he panted. “One year from now I’m going to chase you so hard that you’ll beg for mercy.”

“I’m counting on it,” she grinned.

To please her, he actually stepped into the car, instead of just swinging himself from one chair to the other. But as they approached the house, the pain in his back had returned, and he had to bite down hard to keep himself from screaming. Sweating, he leant back in his seat and closed his eyes.  

He thought of Ruth, and Max, and the feel of Erik’s scars against his fingertips. He thought of Erik’s smile as he ran through Central Park, and the way they’d slap each other on the shoulders after a Mets game. He thought of Erik’s strength, his power, marching through his lecture hall, his students too enthralled to even breathe.

He pulled back his shoulders.

_I’ll make it, Erik._

_I’ll do you proud._

_~_ Fin _~_


End file.
